Life Among the Dead
Author: Daniel Cotton
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: apocalypse; Suspense; living dead; postapocalyptic; Thriller; dark humor; walking dead; Survival; Horror; zombie; series; undead; ghouls; Epic; reanimated corpses; Zombies; Apocalyptic; Science Fictio
Description: Welcome back. You are about to be taken back to the first day of the outbreak. There are over a million people in the city of Waterloo, Dan Williamson is just one of them. Meet Dustin Barnes, not the typical protagonist, he's a post-apocalyptic cockroach, the sort of guy that will do anything in order to survive, and he's on a collision course heading north to New Castle.Those who have survived, the sinners and saints alike, knew the dead had an appetite before, now they are starving. With the scarcity of the delicacy they crave, human flesh, they are becoming maddened by the hunger, they are
Publisher: Permuted Press

A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-2-765

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-2-772

Life Among the Dead 2 copyright © 2014
by Daniel Cotton

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Dean Samed, Conzpiracy Digital

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Table of Contents

Section IV. Music to Survive By

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Section V. If You Want Blood

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Section VI. Dead on Arrival

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Section VII. The Suicide King.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

To the Reader

About the Author

Section IV. Music to Survive By

1

It’s a week with too many Wednesdays. Dustin Barnes grumbles to himself as he sits in his beat-up old car outside of work. He is fresh off his ninety-day probationary period, but his supervisor told him he had to work the weekend. Merely seven days in and already he is exhausted. To make matters worse, he’ll probably be on for the next two weekends as well.

Twelve days straight will be bad enough, he thinks. Three weeks without a day off will kill me. The very notion of entering the depressing place is enough to make him sick. The noise and the grime, the smell and the monotony.

Kelly Peel’s voice is the only thing making his day even slightly bearable. He’s a closeted fan of hers, and it’s far better than the country music the radio stations will only pick up when nicer weather chases away the early morning chill.

The only plus he can see about this job is Cynthia. Cynthia works third shift, and the high point of his day is the short time he sees her. She always has a smile for him, and greets him by name before she changes out of her work boots and clocks out. After that, his day at the factory will be downhill.

He’s early this morning, which strikes him as funny when he considers his shift starts at 5 AM. Typically, he rolls into the lot last and has to hunt for a parking space between arriving first shifters and those on third who haven’t left yet. But rowdy neighbors fighting woke him around 3 AM , so he figured he might as well get up. He is happy that the extra time allowed him to get his thick black hair just how he likes it.

Sitting in his rattling Altima, he ponders his options. Go make time with Cynthia, or take the day off. Cynthia's a bit older than he is, but has legs to die for, and he figures the single mom may find it flattering. Too much work. The choice that looks better by the second is leaving.

Dustin realizes he won’t be losing any money since he has earned his first ‘floating holiday’ having survived the probation period. I can just call out, he rationalizes. I worked all weekend on overtime. It’s money in the bank!

But where do I spend my day off? He knows exactly where to go, Hannah’s. More specifically, he is going to Ray’s Records--his favorite place in the world. He worked there before here, but he was fired for stealing. He took everything he could from the store, including a sound system more valuable than the car he listens to it in.

The place won’t be open for hours, but he can only hope his code for the back door is still good. The manager is a lazy sort of man who should be on vacation according to his buddy, Brandon. Brandon still works there since his own pilfering is kept small, and they can hang out all day practicing. With our gig coming up we can sure use it.

Dustin and Brandon, along with two friends from high school, are in a band called the Dogs of War. They had originally intended to call themselves the Four Horsemen, but three of them couldn’t decide on who got to be called War or Death, and none wanted to be Pestilence. Famine was easily given to Vicky, whose frequent bouts with anorexia has left her with a waif-like frame and gaunt features, but her addiction to diet pills makes her a fierce drummer.

This’ll be great! he thinks as he puts his ‘shit box’ into gear and turns his system up after switching the disc. Classic metal replaces Kelly Peel’s infamous ‘Rooster song.’ The bass shakes the ground as he pulls out of the lot, leaving his job behind. He isn’t too far from Hannah’s, so he’ll have to call out from the store phone since his cell was deactivated for lack of payment. He drives cautiously, having noticed an unusual amount of people out running this morning, and a lot of cops and ambulances. It seems like almost every street is bathed in red and blue flashing lights.

##

The employee parking lot of the shopping center is underground and never secured. It is kept open for the night-cleaners and stores with late hours. Dustin isn’t surprised to find the dimly lit space practically empty; only five other vehicles sit under the yellow sodium lights.

After parking his car, he heads up the dirty concrete steps with their worn industrial non-slip strips. The employee access is a sharp contrast to the festively decorated mall beyond. Welcome to the dream factory. One flight takes him to ground level and to the back of Ray’s.

The keypad beeps with every digit he punches in. Then, to his delight, the lock releases so he can slip into the pitch-black backroom. Dustin waits for his eyes to adjust. Though he knows the place like the back of his hand, he can’t be certain where new shipment boxes have been placed. Back when he worked here he used to use his cell phone for light, but since the service was pulled he stopped carrying it.

Shades of grey develop, revealing the outlines of his surroundings, and most importantly the breaker. Dustin feels for the handle to power up the shop’s lights. Throwing the heavy switch blinds him momentarily, and a lasting snapshot of the storeroom is stamped onto his eyelids. But just before he shut his eyes, he caught sight of a person near the door that leads to the sales floor. It’s far too early for anyone to be here, he can’t imagine who it can be.

“Hello?” he says while trying to force his eyes open. The unidentified figure doesn’t respond, so Dustin fears they may have run to call the cops. “I’m Dustin. Are you new? Brandon may have mentioned me…”

Slowly he is able to raise his gaze and focus once his eyes adjust. And the familiarity of the form allows him to relax. The mystery man is just a tee-shirt mannequin that usually stands out by the front windows. They must have moved him to decorate for the holidays.

The storage space is packed with boxes, but not all of it is merchandise to go out. The owner of Ray’s refuses to get rid of anything, having learned his lesson when vinyl made a comeback. The boxes are stuffed with cassette tapes and VHS movies in the event of retro demand. CDs will be the next items to be mothballed. The store has been struggling to stay above water since the advent of MP3s and pirated music, so they’ve had to expand the selection to include more and more clothing and musical instruments. They also have to suffer the indignity of selling the very devices that are killing the industry: iPods and other players.

The first place Dustin always goes when he comes here, even when he was an employee, is the guitars. He had fallen in love with a particular Gibson Les Paul in jet black the moment he laid eyes upon it. It’s kept in a glass case to prevent greasy fingered patrons from sullying its mesmerizing finish, or heaven forbid dropping the thing. He whispers to the axe the same promise every visit, one day.

He walks among the ever dwindling music selection. What was once wall-to-wall albums has been reduced to one central rack of CDs. Entire genres have been excised due to lack of interest, and only the most popular artists are available: cheesy pop stars, rappers, and of course the gods of rock. A glass cabinet to his left displays the reason for the decline--the music devices. He glances into the case of impossibly diminutive electronics; despite his initial disdain, he has developed an urge to get one and create the ultimate playlist.

The shop phone is by the registers near the front of the store. He has to call his work and let them know he won’t be in today. As the line rings, he looks out through the plate glass windows and into the dark courtyard of the shopping center, surprised to see mall walkers so early, The open air establishment is the perfect setting for people needing a safe place to exercise, free of traffic, but they usually arrive later than this.

Come on. Pick up the phone ya fat fuck, he commands the third shift supervisor telepathically. The walkers in the courtyard stare at him; some are coming closer to the door. Dustin shakes his head at the individuals entering the pool of light spilling out from the storefront.

“We’re closed!” he says loud and slow for them, but they continue to approach the glass. He quickly turns away from the early birds when the phone is answered. “Uh, nothing… I was talking to someone else… This is Dustin from the small lathe cell. I’m sick and can’t make it in today. Gotta go. Bye.”

The supervisor had started going on about all the other workers who had called out this morning, but Dustin couldn’t care less. He has approval and that’s all that matters. Now all he has to do is kill time before Brandon gets in. So he plans to veg out in front of a small selection of flat screen televisions, because he certainly wants to get away from the creepy folks in the courtyard. Dustin chalks their transfixed window shopping up to the approaching gift giving season.

He wheels a swivel chair from the back to the wall of TVs, drops into it, and elevates his feet on a speaker. Then Dustin wades through news bulletins, trying to find something light he can nap to. Though he’s been working this shift for three weeks, he still hasn’t gotten used to the early hours. After locating a classic cartoon of a cat and mouse in perpetual conflict, he is able to fall asleep listening to the wholesome violence.

##

A high-pitched tone whines in a steady interval. Dustin blindly searches for his alarm clock with his arm, finding nothing but air. He opens his eyes wide with shock, forgetting he has been sacking out in his favorite place in all of Waterloo after so cunningly ditching work. The sound persists.

The television displays a plain blue screen except for a message the scrolls along the bottom in a black banner. The ticker advises people they should avoid the downtown area at this time. Spellbound, he stares at the warning, unable to understand why such a drastic precaution should be taken. He waits for the slow moving headline to impart more, but it just continues to repeat.

He changes the channel to the other stations that had earlier shown what looked like war correspondents on the frontlines of some foreign battlefront. The same urban setting is being displayed, only now, during the light of day, he sees familiar landmarks.

“That’s Waterloo.”

Soldiers in green camouflage fatigues stand by barricades with their rifles at the ready.

The reporter addresses the camera. “… violence on the rise. We are told the best thing to do is stay home and lock it tight. Don’t open your doors to anyone…”

Another channel shows the city under the light of the rising sun. The angle is off because the camera is at an intersection on its side. The street takes up a third of the screen while pairs of slow moving shoes occupy the rest. The owners don’t quite pick up their feet but rather slide them along.

A riot? Dustin wonders. The areas shown on the screen are merely blocks away. What if Ray’s gets looted? The word 'looted' echoes in his mind.

He gathers the greatest albums ever recorded from the shelves and back room. Dustin knows getting out with the piles of clattering cases will be problematic, but he also knows how he can take them all and still fit the entire collection into his pockets.

The case of music players is unlocked. Dustin plans to compile his playlist, an ultimate catalog fueled by his eclectic musical tastes. Classic rock and hairbands, new metal and industrial, alternative, and a select few pop tunes he secretly enjoys. The bothersome piles of plastic jewel cases and the modern solution are dropped off at the store’s computer for the endeavor. The process will take a while, since the computer itself hasn’t been upgraded in the past decade. The tower’s cooling fan whines noisily as he brings up the program needed to rip the tracks.

In the interim between songs, Dustin checks the news to stay current on the situation. He’d go online but the outdated computer slows dramatically when overtasked. No further information is being relayed at the moment. The tedious hours are passed between staring at the progress on the monitor and sneaking peeks at the televisions. It isn’t until he is halfway through the stacks of CDs that he realizes Brandon hasn’t shown up to open the store. He should have been here by now.

A droning male voice brings his attention to the sales floor. A man is speaking in a nervous monotone on one of the flat screens. He sits behind a desk in a news room, and it appears he was rushed in front of the camera. The broadcaster’s hair isn’t very well coifed, and he fidgets to straighten wrinkles in his dark blue sports coat. His eyes dart left and right, and he is at a loss for words. Besides a few unintelligible noises, he doesn’t commence speaking until a sheet of paper is handed to him from off-camera.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We have breaking news…” The man struggles to continue his bulletin. “It appears that the dead are walking… and attacking the living…”

“What the fuck?” He laughs at the absurdity of the announcement, thinking it must be a joke, or a movie.

“We have been asked by authorities to advise all of the viewing public to stay indoors and not to try to reach loved ones. You should not answer your door to anyone. Avoid contact with the dead for it has been confirmed that their bite is contagious. Anyone bitten will become one of them. As an extra precaution you should avoid being seen by the dead. Stay away from windows.”

Dustin slowly looks away from the screen and out through the display panes. Dozens of ‘mall walkers’ linger at the glass, slapping their palms against the shatter-proof barrier. They want in.

Dustin had seen a crazy man pound on the transparent panes with a baseball bat once, so he knows he’s safe as long as he doesn’t leave. At least not that way. He may love this store, but he sure doesn’t want to stay here until this, whatever this is, blows over. He definitely plans to finish his playlist before going, since he'll need music to survive by.

He works as fast as the old computer will allow to get the last of the songs onto his devices, and he’s just a few tracks from completion when the power goes out. He groans in dismay, but he actually has the last of the albums at his apartment, so he just has to get there to complete his playlist. The power outage reminds him that he’ll need a supply of batteries to run his new players.

Dustin moves to the register to snag as many packages of batteries as he can, but he has trouble taking his eyes off of the threat in the courtyard. Their vacant gazes are hard to break away from. Under the morning sun, he sees them better. Patches of their clothing are tattered and bloody. One man looks as if he’s been gnawed on by hungry dogs, and his face is a mask of scarlet chunks that extends down his neck and over his shoulders. As he takes in the details of the dead, they are erased magically like an Etch-a-Sketch by a speeding white blur. He thinks the quick object that cleared the corpses was a van, but he can’t be certain. He does know it’s in for a bumpy ride, since it’s heading straight for a long set of stairs that lead to Main Street.

2

The city of Waterloo has two main hospitals. Olive Grove on the north side, near the industrial park, and Memorial on the south end. There are also many clinics and urgent care facilities, but if someone needs to be admitted they are taken to one of these two. Memorial Hospital, being surrounded by the ritziest of citizens in the prestigious area of the city known as ‘the Hills’ is often called the place where rich men go to die.

Doctor James Orville is cutting his teeth as a physician in this unusually bustling ER, and he has also been assigned to one patient whose care is his top priority. His patient’s status in society lends him such special treatment, but it is also given for his humanitarian efforts and charitable nature. He has donated so much to hospital that they have named a wing after him, even dedicated the chapel in his honor.

“So there you are in the prime of your life, when most men are well passed theirs, about to catch an early morning flight, and you just keel over.” The doctor stares at the dead man on a steel examination table in the morgue.

It happened at 5AM. Freeman Wilkes, age 52, collapsed in the terminal just as he was about to embark on another business trip. Given the man’s age and the fact that African Americans are statistically more prone to heart disease--coupled with his hectic schedule--it wasn’t a surprise. People often said the man could be in two places at the same time, always where he was needed.

Orville wants to concur with the pronouncing physician’s report, natural causes, but something about this doesn’t quite add up. Doctor Orville had met Mr. Wilkes briefly months ago, introduced by the man’s own private physician at a marathon Freeman had orchestrated for cancer awareness. I got winded before the halfway point. There you were, leading the pack.

He ponders the corpse from a swivel stool, his elbows upon his knees to support his chin.

“Nathan said you’d outlive us all.” Orville stands and paces around the table in frustration, recalling his mentor’s words regarding Freeman’s health: the body of a twenty year old, blood pressure to die for, strongest heart I’ve ever listened to. “Then why would Nathan say it was a heart attack in his preliminary?”

For a rich man, personal staff is always considered ‘on-call,’ which includes doctors. It was Nathanial Grey, MD, that called the time of death, and all Orville has to do is concur. No autopsy is to be done, because the widow requested it be forgone, stating that it was ‘just his time.’

“No, it wasn’t,” Orville says.

His reverberating words fade but seem to leave behind a trace, a residual metallic clang. He can’t tell where the knocking is coming from, but it’s the least of his concerns. It must be the pipes, and, besides, he has a decision to make. Though he was instructed to forgo an autopsy, that’s just what he is about to do, after gathering samples for a full toxicology report. Another crucial step he was informed was unnecessary.

“I can always work at Olive Grove,” he jokes to himself. Nathanial had pulled strings to get him into Memorial, and he is lucky to be here working from the ground up. The hospital typically employs only the most esteemed and seasoned medical staff, and he himself has only been off his internship for a year. Not quite ‘top of his class,’ but Orville knows to trust his instincts. “I certainly won’t write a false report.”

“Perhaps, I can force your pen, Doctor Orville.”

The sudden presence causes him to start. He turns with a gasp to see a well-dressed man standing at the door, his face hidden by the shadows cast by the small hallway. The doctor doesn’t recognize the voice, but he knows its owner shouldn’t be in here. He steels his nerves and his resolve.

“You need to leave, sir. If you are family, you’ll find his wife in Wilkes Chapel.”

Over the metallic clatter that increases in its rhythm, the man laughs slightly. He knows exactly where to find the widow because she hired him. With his current employer, the notorious Benito Sartori, incarcerated, he has been allowed to freelance. The young doctor’s report is the one loose end he must tie up. “I’ll pay my respects after you sign off on that report. It was simply his time.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is of no consequence.” The man approaches. His left hand is clad in a black leather glove and holds a small pistol trained on Orville’s chest. “Please, make this easy on yourself.”

Every fiber of Orville's being tells him not to falsify the report. As a doctor he has taken an oath, but he also wants to live.

He has one ace up his sleeve. The morgue is equipped with a recording device for attendants to use during their examinations, but he just needs to activate it without this man seeing him. If I can get him to talk on tape, I can comply with his demands, and just take the…

Before the doctor can get his plan into motion, Freeman Wilkes moves. The dead man lunges from the table, sinking his teeth into Orville, who screams as blood saturates his white lab coat.

The man with the gun can’t believe his eyes. The amount of poison he had slipped into Wilkes' coffee was enough to kill a water buffalo, but now Freeman's eating his loose end.

The metallic clanging becomes a violent battering, and the steel doors that contain the cadavers are forced open from the inside.

“This complicates things.”

##

Just a few blocks away, still in the Hills among lavish penthouses and gated homes, a local girl who has done very well for herself lies in bed. She’s been depressed since filing for divorce from her husband of only six months. She has chosen to wade through it alone, sending away all her help in favor of solitude. The young woman of twenty-two casts off the comforter that has lived up to its name for her for the past three days, sending aluminum chocolate wrappers flying.

Dressed in frumpy flannel pajamas that she hasn't worn since inviting him into her life, she slips her feet into a pair of warm house shoes. She is finding it hard to feel sorry for herself when an odd rustling sound comes from somewhere inside the house.

Known for her grace and poise, she tiptoes stealthily through the upstairs hall. She listens and detects the ruckus comes from downstairs. Her voice has been equated to that of angels, but she dares not use it now as she slowly descends the stairs, using the banister to lighten her already modest weight.

At the landing, she listens and finds the sound to be coming from her office. The office she once shared with her horrible future ex-husband, though he had no use for one. The door is partially open, so she creeps to the crack and pushes it the rest of the way. There he is, standing near her displayed platinum records and Grammys. Randy Russell, Kelly Peel’s estranged spouse.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands.

The man is startled by the beautiful woman he had married in Vegas and later wronged. Later that night, actually. The British comic stammers his explanation. “I… I’ll have you know, they kicked me out of my usual suite at the Hammond Grand. Some bullshit about fumigating it. I don’t plan to stay. I’m looking for something… Unless, you’ll let me stay here? Have you cooled off?”

“The fact that you have a usual suite at a hotel when we own--sorry, I own--a house in this city should tell you that I will never cool off, you bastard.”

“Right,” he says simply, still looking around the office. “I’m looking for my joke book. I have that USO thing up north in a few weeks…”

Kelly knows the man doesn’t care about his upcoming gig for the troops. He hardly ever writes in his so-called book of jokes. She knows exactly what he is looking for. “I flushed that shit.”

“What? All of it?” He makes a desperate grimace, and his hands wring the air as if it were her neck. “Fuck!”

“Get out!”

“I can’t.”

“We’re never going to get back together. Just go before I call the cops. That’s the last thing you need.”

“No. I can’t because the paparazzi are outside. They’ve been tailing me all morning.” He flings a finger toward the windows facing the main entrance to the gated property.

Kelly Peel, Waterloo native turned pop sensation, uses two fingers to delicately separate the white lace curtains. The road beyond her wrought iron is populated by figures that stare at her home. She finds one thing odd about this herd of reporters, no cameras. “I don’t care. You’re not staying here.”

“You can’t kick me out,” he explains to her. “This is my home too. Until a judge determines who owns what, it is all shared property.”

“You don’t own anything!” she asserts. “Everything is in my name. I bought this house before we even met! What little you earn with your disgusting mouth has been spent on drugs, booze, and whores!”

“Escorts!” Randy corrects her pointedly. His pride is bruised by her words, no matter how true they may be. She is the top earner in their relationship; she’s the top earner of most in her field currently. After they finalize their divorce, should his infidelity come to light, his already lack luster career will be over. “Why would you purchase a home here, of all places?”

She shakes her head at him in disbelief. “I’m from here.”

“You’re amazing. You should live in a city that befits your greatness, not one named after one of the most crushing military defeats in human history. Cities that have songs about them sung by Sinatra, Elvis, or the Chile Peppers. Not Abba. You’re better than Abba.”

His words make her laugh. He sees hope in that chuckle, because it was his humor that won her heart not too long ago. Randy takes a few steps closer to embrace his wife. He is halted by a palm against his chest, and the smile he had earned is now a sneer.

“I’m better than Abba.” She nods slowly. “I can’t believe that’s actually the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Out!”

Randy is dumfounded. His wife leaves the room and he is alone, surrounded by the trophies of her greatness and fame. He stares at a blown up, framed magazine cover depicting her. Though she is beautiful this morning, without all of the make-up or skimpy attire she is known for, the image looking down on him is positively radiant. She is posing seductively in a black teddy and white feathered wings. The reporter of the magazine used all the usual phrases to describe Kelly Peel; angelic voice, stunning eyes, and the body of a porn star.

Fuck, I’m stupid.

3

The loaded MP3 players are put in a backpack along with a few pairs of ear buds and as many packs of double A's as he can carry. Dustin's current goal is to get home, then he’ll try to get out of the city.

Typically, no visit to Ray’s can conclude properly without saying goodbye to that beautiful Les Paul, but not this time. Today is the day, he tells the guitar as he smashes the case, using a lesser quality instrument. The marvelous Gibson is slung over his shoulder by its strap. He also claims a small portable amp and heads for the back door.

With the electricity out, the stairs are even darker than before. Only half of the overhead lights are on, running off of emergency power. The auxiliary system provides just enough power for employees and patrons to make it to the exits safely if the main source doesn’t resume. So he proceeds slowly all the way to the parking garage.

Pockets of darkness shadow the subterranean space. Dustin had fortunately parked his Altima under one of the few fixtures that are illuminated. But his steps are halted by a noise echoing within the concrete enclosure. The shuffling of feet signals a figure emerging from the gloom.

Dustin holds his breath when he sees a policeman meandering his way with his head hung low. His first thought is that he’s going to jail, and he wonders if the stolen merchandise will net him a felony or just a misdemeanor. He can’t imagine that petty theft will be a top priority for the cops with everything going on, so he loads his goods into the back of his car.

Dustin opens his door and is about to take off when he notices the law man is approaching, limping faster and more deliberate. Oh my god! Is he one of them? The only thing he has that he can use as a weapon is the black Les Paul, and smashing it is a painful thought.

“What’s the trouble, officer?” He poises the guitar to strike. When he receives no response he decides to jump into the driver’s seat rather than damage his Gibson.

The officer is at the front fender. Dustin’s hesitation gives the man the opportunity to get a hand on the door, barring its closure. “Have you seen an ammo clip?”

“Huh?” Dustin is relieved to hear him talking.

“I lost a mag.” The cop sits upon the Altima’s hood, setting down his pistol and a box of ammunition.

Dustin has never seen a policeman who wasn’t completely in control of himself, but this one cradles his face with shaky hands.

“Don’t you guys have shotguns?”

“My partner had it…”

Past tense, Dustin thinks. Not good.

“I had to get off the streets,” the cop continues. “They’re everywhere…”

From the box of bullets, he takes a single round that he feeds into the breach of his weapon. The slide is returned with a metallic sound that is magnified in the cement cavern. “I just lost count. I ejected the mag and had to run. I dropped it!”

“You don’t have a spare?”

“It was my spare.” Despair makes his voice crack. Before Dustin can stop him, the cop places the barrel under his chin and fires the round. Blood and brains plaster the beams above, raining down red clumps. The light source overhead is coated with crimson, casting the hue over everything below.

Dustin is in shock over the grisly occurrence. He has never seen a dead body before, let alone witnessed a suicide firsthand. He stands staring at the corpse on his hood, unable to move though he hears moans from the street. He snaps himself out of it once long shadows from the afternoon sun stretch along the concrete floor. Dustin is afraid to move closer to the fallen officer, but he must overcome his fears to retrieve the weapon. Still he shivers when he takes the pistol from the cop’s dead fingers. He snatches up the box of ammo and shoves the body to the ground, pulling his sleeve up over his hand to minimize contact with the dead man.

Once safely inside his car, he must contend with another first: holding a gun. The weapon feels hot in his hands as he scrutinizes it. He has seen plenty of them in movies and video games. The slide is all the way back, leaving a gaping rectangular hole in the side; the He had watched the cop insert the round that he had killed himself with, so he duplicates the action, but is at a loss as to how to mimic the metallic sound. Dustin cautiously attempts different buttons and levers until the hole is sealed with a startling jolt. That’s it, he thinks with triumph and fear. It’s ready to go.

After turning the engine over, he maneuvers the guitar through the backrests and sets it on the backseat. He sees the approaching figures coming down the ramp from street level. They walk at a jog, aided by gravity until straight ground takes them off guard, causing one to clumsily fall.

He pulls away from the parking spot, running over the policeman’s corpse on his way to the ramp. As he drives he ponders what he heard on the news, and, considering, he doesn’t feel bad at all as the bodies crumple and slap upon his hood.

The sun is bright compared to the gloom of the parking lot, and it shines down warmly, chasing away the morning frost.

The Altima enters bedlam, and Dustin punches buttons on his stereo to scan through the discs in his changer. He wants something to suit the carnage, to match the strewn bodies and walking corpses, the abandoned cars and smoky air caused by nearby fires. He finds the next selection more fitting. Angry sounding rock. The kind of music that, when he isn’t careful, always results in a speeding ticket.

He cruises the streets in this living nightmare, trying to get home. He has to backtrack several times after becoming trapped in dead ends of traffic. Groups of ghouls trail his movement. They accumulate into a horde in his rearview as if he’s the Pied Piper of the undead. He knows he can’t have them on his heels should he make it home, because he’ll have no way of getting out of the car. Losing them isn’t an option, and he can’t get enough speed to drop from their sight.

Dustin pulls his car next to some abandoned military vehicles and sandbag barriers then hops into the backseat. The factory he works at had given all its employees coats with the company name embroidered across the back. So now he wiggles down against the floor, among his plastic shopping bag of trash and empty bottles of wiper fluid, and he covers himself with the coat, praying the dead just pass him by.

##

A desperate man hunkers in the back of a deuce and a half. He’s a soldier, part of the time. The reservist’s typical 9 to 5 is as a claims adjuster. Today is beyond anything he had signed up for. He got the call of duty that morning to help maintain the peace since the first to fall were the first responders, then the mission failed epically. He ran, just as the others had. As far as he knows, he is the last one alive.

Corporal Silva had climbed onto the back of the truck to hide. He is low on munitions, and if he wants to make it home he needs all the rounds he can salvage. The man was gathering magazines from the abandoned rifles of his comrades. The recovered ammo now lays on the street beyond usefulness, lost in the man's haste to get away from a horde that seemed to come out of nowhere. Dozens by his panicked count.

Locked-in on his location, the dead clamor for him. He must cover his ears against the maddening pleas of the hungry dead, who seem to be begging to be fed. Roaring above their wailing, drowning them out, comes the most glorious sound he has ever heard. He knows it will be his salvation.

“Is that the rooster song?”

##

Dustin can’t believe his ears. It’s the very same singer he had listened to earlier this morning, only now she is being played loudly in the middle of the street. He can’t fight the urge to look, so he slowly rises from the cramped and filthy floor of his car to kneel with his hands upon the crumb dusted seat. He looks over the backrest and out his window, watching a man dance to the music, drawing the zombies towards him.

The guy is donning an old fashioned hockey mask while performing Kelly Peel’s signature moves and gyrations. The dead certainly appreciate the show, for they eagerly hobble towards him and pass Dustin once more. The peculiar figure doesn’t seem scared in the least, for he continues to mimic the pop star’s suggestive dancing as the corpses draw near. He obviously wants them as close as possible.

Dustin can no longer see the carefree figure shrouded by the zombies. He cranes his neck to peer around the backs of the departed, but it’s no use, for they’ve clogged the view completely.

A loud staccato erupts, drowning out the innuendo heavy tune. Dustin ducks below the seat at first, but just can’t help peeking up over headrest. The dead begin to dance a convulsive shimmy before falling to the asphalt. Heads pop open in geysers of thick gore, and the dancing Peel fan now crouches behind one of the sandbag bunkers, manning a .50 caliber machine gun. The weapon shakes violently as it spews its projectiles into the hungry zombies. Once the gun goes silent, and all the dead lay still on the road, he simply heads off, taking the music with him.

Dustin climbs back into the driver’s seat. He isn’t sure if it was the man’s intention to clear the dead for him or just a personal vendetta, and he doesn’t care. He just wants to get moving.

During his quick trip into the back, he had lost his pistol. While retrieving the gun from the floor mat, he hears a sound. More shuffling feet approach his car, so he tries to start his engine, but it’s being stubborn, and all the warning lights are flashing behind his steering wheel. He has to give up on the key to point his gun at his window when a hand slaps upon the glass.

“Whoa! Don’t shoot!” A heavyset man in fatigues puts his palms up. “I’m alive.”

The rotund soldier proceeds around the Altima after the driver releases the door locks. He removes an olive drab bag from his shoulder and an assault rifle from his other. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Uh… Sure thing,” Dustin has no qualms taking the credit.

“A swarm of them just came outta nowhere,” the soldier says. “Where’re you heading?”

Dustin doesn’t mind the man joining him. He figures it can’t hurt having a soldier along, even this doughy-boy. “Out of town,” Until he saw the state of the city, he had planned to go home and wait it out. Now all he wants to do is find a quiet place.

“Can you by any chance take me to West 8th?”

“That’s a bit out of my way, actually.”

The soldier aims his rifle at the driver. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

The Altima rolls. “Where is West 8th exactly?”

“Just beyond Shepard Park, west of the city.” The soldier relaxes his weapon. He starts taking magazines of varied fullness out of his bag so he can combine the rounds and make a few containing the full capacity. “Sorry to force this on you… I have to get home, see if my wife is all right. Say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”

“I got bit. Means I’ll be one of them soon. When those fuckers surprised me, I couldn’t hide fast enough. One of them got my calf.”

Dustin knows the mishap was indirectly his fault for leading them to the scene, but he isn’t about to say as much to the guy.

“These things are like sharks, man. Sharks on land. Always on the move, looking for food. They track us by sight, sound, and smell.”

“Smell?”

“Blood. They can smell it. At least, that’s what it looks like.”

“What are they?” Dustin asks with frightened wonder.

“Zombies.” The man taps one of his new magazines against his palm like he was taught in boot camp to align the bullets and prevent jamming. He loads it into the carbine. “I’ll make you a deal. Hunker down at my place, or take my wife with you, and I’ll give you my gun and show you how to use it.”

Although he doesn’t like the idea of having to take care of someone else, he knows he’d fare better with the rifle. Ultimately his guilt over leading the dead to the man’s location guides his decision. “Deal.”

The solider digs in his cargo pockets. “Do you want some beef jerky?”

“Sure.” Dustin always skips breakfast, preferring to graze from the vending machines at work. That type of eating isn’t so much about the sustenance, but more of an anti-depressant--frosted happiness with sprinkles.

“Once, after coming back from the field, my wife found a pouch of Levi Garrett in my gear. Now she always sends me out with pounds of this stuff. It’s actually quite a good substitute, and much healthier than chew.”

The man is silent, staring at a cell phone in his hands that he had removed along with the jerky. “I’ll never get it back to him, I guess.”

Dustin is too busy navigating around the dead autos to fully understand the soldier’s meaning. “What’s that?”

“A guy dropped his phone when we were mobilizing. He got put on a bus before I could get it to him. I just figured I could give it to him at the debriefing when this was all behind us.”

The soldier feels a twinge of guilt as he puts another person’s phone to his ear after punching a series of numbers.

“Calling home?” Dustin asks.

“Yeah… It’s busy,” He stashes the cell away then stares out the window. His hands tap upon his thighs nervously. “With the holidays coming up, she’s probably taking orders.”

“What do you mean?”

“She has a rather successful home baking service.” Corporal Silva digs into yet another of his many pockets. “You may have seen her treats around the area. Pies, cookies, cakes, and such.” The soldier holds a photo for the young driver to steal a glance at.

The man’s wife is a morbidly obese woman that he does recognize from logos.

The man goes on to say. “She’s always loved baking.”

No shit, Dustin gives a grunt of approval, having learned long ago saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could cost him dearly.

Dustin turns the music down so they can talk, but his passenger sits in contemplative silence. So Dustin tries for conversation. “I once thought about joining the military. Was boot camp as bad as they say?”

“No.” The man laughs. “It was worse. Think about a world where everything you say and do is wrong…”

Sounds like my life.

“…where you wear tee-shirts and tighty whities with your name stenciled into them. All must be folded in the most anal manner possible and stored in a tiny locker. Lord help you if it ain’t perfect. Hard as it was, I always look back at it and laugh, thinking that it was the best mistake I’ve ever made.”

The man pauses and chuckles when the youth stops at a stop sign. “What are you doing? You’re not going to get pulled over.”

“I forgot.” Dustin feels embarrassed as he pulls onto Park Boulevard.

“It looks quiet.”

The vehicle brakes hard and every warning light illuminates on the dash.

“Gas! Gas! Step on the gas!”

Dustin tries but is too late, and the car dies. Turning the key doesn’t revive the Altima. It doesn’t even make a sound.

“Don’t bother,” the solider says sadly. “Your alternator is shot. We’ll be hoofing it from here.”

The kid gathers his things from the back while the soldier investigates what caused the sudden stop--a Kevlar helmet lying in the road. The ‘brain bucket,’ as his compatriots call it, was left by a fellow soldier. There’s no nametape on it to tell who its owner may have been. The solider is about to offer it to his companion, but can see he is already overburdened by enough. A bag is slung over one arm and a guitar on the other. “That stuff will just slow you down.”

Dustin ignores the warning, not about to leave his things behind. The two begin the trek through the park.

4

“Farnsworth! Farnsworth!”

Kelly can hear Randy scream from upstairs. She has allowed the man to pack up his possessions while she watches the people gathering just outside the gates of her property. It's a large estate for a single person yet far below what she can afford. She always expected to have children with the man she married. Of course, this was her intention before meeting the guy she ultimately wed, because he is no one to have kids with.

“Where the devil is Farnsworth?” Randy storms into the foyer.

“I sent everyone away,” she tells him absently.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that over the intercom? I’ve been yelling for fifteen minutes.”

“Power’s out… And it was funny.”

“Are they still out there?” he asks her, heading to a different window to look for himself.

The mob of gawkers all turn to something on the street that catches their collective attention. Slowly they proceed like a swarm around Kelly’s neighbors. She’s never met the family but has waved to them when coming or going. The opening of their gate had prompted the movement, when they tried to leave their home in a convertible but failed.

As far as Kelly knows, the people are of no public interest, so the paparazzi shouldn’t be as fervent as this. The journalists are getting more than snapshots and sound bites, they are taking actual bites. Though her neighbors are strapped into their seats by their safety belts, the mob tears at them and fight each other over their flailing limbs. Kelly has to look away.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Randy says, unable to take his eyes off of the carnage. “Is someone making a movie?”

Kelly is unable to talk. She feels sick to her stomach and has to sit down. She feels bad for the family, and wishes she had done more than just exchange courteous waves in passing. And she wishes she could do something now to help them, but she’s too scared.

Tires screech to a halt outside. Kelly is curious but can’t bear the thought of looking out the window again. “What is it?”

“It’s Wayne Gretzky.” Randy nicknames the man based on the hockey mask he wears.

The aggressive journalists leave the mutilated family to converge on the newcomer, who meets them readily armed with a machete. The man fearlessly engages them, hacking away at their necks and heads. He slaughters the lot in the middle of the street, in broad daylight. Bodies and body parts lay strewn on the asphalt, and when the last of them falls to his blade he sets his eyes on the Peel residence.

“Are the phones up?” Randy asks urgently.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“There is a guy out there who has just massacred the group that has massacred the neighbors… He’s climbing the gate.”

She has no choice but to look out the window now. Randy is telling the truth, and she watches the man drop from the top spikes of the wrought iron. He is coming up the walk.

“See! If we were in LA, we’d be far from this,” Randy quibbles. “Even if it did happen, we’d have our panic room to hide in.”

“Not the time,” she tells him as they back away from the door.

Deep knocks cause them to draw ragged, fearful breaths. The raps grow louder the longer they go unanswered. It becomes evident that, at some point during his beseeching entry, the man decided to use his foot rather than his hand, because the door is kicked in.

He steps into the foyer, and the long blade in his hand drops thick clumps of gore on the immaculate white marble flooring. Scanning slowly, he sets his sights on the cowering pair as they retreat backwards into Kelly’s office. There is nowhere else to go from this area of the house. Before Randy can slam the door shut, the man has his hand in the frame. The wood rebounds off of his knuckles and it’s as if he can’t even feel it.

Kelly and Randy search for a means of defense against the intruder, but they come up with only award statuettes. My wife may be leaving me, Randy thinks, but I will still protect her, or at least, more than likely, die trying. “Now see here, Mr. Voorhees, I’ll have you know that I have been in more than a few action films, and have picked up a few moves from some rather large and imposing men.”

The man takes a few steps into the room; he doesn’t so much look past the scrawny British man but right through him, at the petite woman behind him. He drops the machete.

“Don’t be scared.”

The voice is gravelly, the words seem preposterous, and Randy is surely not one to let such a thing slide. “I’m sorry… Did you really just say ‘don’t be scared’ in that Swamp Thing voice of yours? Coming in here with a machete, after butchering all the reporters in the entire mid-west, wearing that mask, all covered in blood and… other stuff?”

“Reporters?”

“We are famous, you know?” Though the threat may be over, Randy keeps himself between this man and Kelly.

“That’s why I’m here.” He looks around the scruffy faced husband, to the songstress. “I’m here to save you.”

“Save us from what?” Kelly leaves the ‘safety’ of her future ex’s protection to address the gentleman.

“The zombies.”

Randy is compelled to ask the obvious question. “Are you fucking mad?”

5

Though the suburbs are quiet, Dustin and Corporal Silva proceed with caution. The heavy set commando is perspiring in the cool afternoon, and Dustin has to wonder if it’s his fitness level or the bite he has sustained.

A chopper flies overhead, circling before heading back towards the city. The craft’s altitude is too high to tell if it’s military.

“If you do stay at my place,” Silva huffs. “Put a sign on the roof to let them know you and my wife are alive inside.”

“’Kay.”

“If you decide to leave the area, head for one of the nearby bases. Eagle Rock up north, or Foster west of here.”

“Are you ok?”

The man has started to lag behind.

“Yeah.” Silva mops his brow. “We’re almost there.”

“How long does it take to change?” Dustin tightens his grip on his pistol.

“Couple hours.” He sees the kid’s tension and smiles. “Don’t worry. I ain’t dying until I see my wife.”

They head towards West 8th on a road that connects all the residential streets. With the exception of a few solo zombies, the neighborhood is without movement. A yellow sign warns them that they are about to enter a dead end, and Dustin is apprehensive about this. Even more so upon seeing the bodies that lay on the pavement. He and the limping soldier pass an abandoned go-cart and a pair of wrecked cars. Smoke billows into the air from a few of the properties. One such smoldering home adds vigor to the injured man’s labored strides.

“Oh my god!” Silva hobbles quickly to a door that hangs off of its hinges and enters. He disregards the charred, twitching bodies strewn across his lawn and those hanging over the sills of his blown out windows.

Dustin stops at the smoky void, unable to summon the courage to enter. Dustin sets a hand on either jamb and listens. The man is weeping inside, but the crying ceases after a single shot rings out.

Dustin retreats off of the stoop. He has no idea what to do and only shifts from foot to foot like a dog left out in the cold. He stares into the hazy gloom at a shadow that moves slowly toward him. Then he takes a step closer with his pistol ready. “Hey… sir? Is everything all right?”

A charred hand’s emerges from the threshold, followed by a second. The stiff and blackened flesh cracks as the fingers flex, reaching for him, but he recoils backwards. In his haste to evade capture, Dustin misses a step and falls onto his back.

A crispy skinned man falls onto him. All of the ghoul’s hair has been singed off, and his shirt has melted to his torso. Dustin pushes the creature away, knowing not to let its mouth near him. Lips like overcooked sausages split open as the dead man attempts to widen his jaw for a bite. The kid fires his weapon into the thing’s face.

Rolling the limp carcass off gives Dustin little comfort, and more burn victims are exiting. He can easily assume his companion had forgotten about him and their deal out of grief, and in turn he must forget about the rifle he was promised. Dustin heads for the street, dropping a round into the chamber of his pistol. He is alone and on unfamiliar ground. Facing the city, he sees zombies entering West 8th. Some stagger out of neighboring homes and from the alleys between. He has no choice but to head farther down the dead end street.

The superfluous merchandise slung upon his back batters against his shoulders with every step. He must change his course, moving from one side of the street to the other to avoid clumps of walking dead that appear from behind objects that obscure them. The interest of the dead has been piqued by the gunfire.

He tries car doors but all are locked. He can get into a delivery truck but there is no key in the ignition. He’s running out of road as he nears the end of the cul de sac, and he is losing hope until he sees one special car on the roundabout. Dustin has never been a fan of late model Camaros, but he sees a recent edition parked that he does fancy. He is drawn to its grinning grill and rock star purple paintjob, but the greatest attribute is its open door.

A peek inside reveals that the keys are in the ignition. He quickly tosses his gear in the back before sliding in. He prays that the battery has enough juice to start, considering the door has been open for who knows how long. Fortunately, it turns over.

“Thank you,” he says with a sigh, releasing the breath he has been holding, but a slap on the window causes him to swallow that air once again.

A distorted male face with blue shadowed eyes and a crooked lipstick sneer stares into the purple car.

“Ahh! What the fuck?” Dustin screams as he throws the car into drive and floors the accelerator. He races down West 8th slowing only to negotiate the cars that block the way.

##

“Daddy?” a timid young girl calls from the open front door.

Her father’s heavily eye-shadowed gaze turns to her. “Molly, I said to stay inside,” he says in a calm whisper.

“I am inside.”

“You know what I mean,” He ushers her farther into the home.

“Where’s your new car?”

“Gone.” Before sealing the door, he looks down the road. His week old vehicle has departed, but he is happy to see the dead following it at least. They are heading away from his home, and more importantly away from his daughter.

“Can we have our tea party now?” Molly asks.

“Yeah, in a sec, honey.” The man had been loading supplies for when they leave the burbs for a safer place, but he’s struggling to concoct a new plan. Their block has been quite chaotic all morning, and this has been the first real lull.

“None of my friends’ dads play pretty, pretty princess.”

“That’s too bad.” He stretches his thickly caked lips into a forced smile. “Those daddies are sure missing out. I feel beautiful.”

6

Randy Russell is known for having a sarcastic comment for virtually every situation, from his stand-up routine and film personas, to interviews and even in his day to day life. This is what caused Kelly to fall in love with him, but it also contributed to her falling out of it. When the man in the mask started winding a small item in his hands, Randy had asked if he was fishing.

Kelly rolled her eyes because she’s seen the object before. “It’s an emergency radio, Randy.”

It took the man a while to locate a broadcast that wasn’t dead or simply emitting a high-pitched tone. When he found one, a pair of men reported on the zombie situation. The dead were eating the living. The disembodied voice warned that people should stay where they were and not make contact with the deceased. Should they get bitten, they would become one of them.

The man in the hockey mask told them his name is Griffin, but Randy has been calling him everything but. “Look, Jason, it’s a hoax. It’s like the War of the Worlds. You’re just over-reacting… Perhaps, ‘over-reacting’ is an understatement for what you just did out there. I’m sure the authorities will go easy on you considering…”

“We have to go,” Griffin says.

“Whoa!” The comedian puts his hands up. “Didn’t your magic talking box tell us to stay put?”

“There are safer places.”

“This place was perfectly safe until you entered, Mister… Mister…Fuck! I don’t know any more hockey players. Those things, your zombies, weren’t bothering us. The only dangerous thing to enter has been you.”

“I’m ready,” Kelly tells Griffin.

“You’re just as daft as he is!” Randy says when he sees Kelly being sucked into the man’s delusion. “You can’t seriously be considering leaving with this man, can you?”

“No, I’m not considering it. I’m doing it.”

Randy feels he must leave as well. “If we are seeking a safe place, I think we should try a hospital.”

“Hospitals are too dangerous,” Griffin says.

“How exactly can a hospital be dangerous, psycho? It’s where people go to take care of their owies, not receive them.”

“Trust me.”

“Fuck that!”

“Randy, if you want to go to a hospital, go to a hospital,” Kelly says.

“All right! I will!” he screams as he follows his wife and her savior down the drive. “We aren’t married. I have no obligation to protect you anymore.”

She ignores her estranged husband while she lets Griffin lead her to the gate. Randy has stopped his pursuit in favor of taking his red sports car. Even with the power out, the gate is operational via his remote since it has an auxiliary battery for emergencies. He hits the button for their escape from the safety of the stone walls.

Seeing Griffin's car out on the street amidst the slaughter makes him grimace. It isn’t the dismemberment that disgusts him, it’s the vehicle. He dislikes the almond shape of the headlights. He’s glad not to be riding in it, and he plans to tell them as much. “What’s that, an Intrepid? Your conveyance looks like it has bloody Down’s syndrome!”

7

Dustin has wheels again. All he needs now is a direction to point them. Thoughts of finding a safe harbor are set on the back burner due to contemplating the gig up north. His band was slated to play at the Flag Pole, a gentlemen’s club between New Castle and Fallen, in a few weeks. He can think of a million reasons not to head there now, but all are thwarted by a single question: Why not?

The easiest northern route out of the city is via the Washington Bridge. He’s having trouble reaching it, because the closer he gets the more congested the roads seem. On several attempts, he must backtrack away from the stalled cars that block his passage.

Frustrated, he disregards many traffic laws to pull a reverse U-turn in a clear intersection. He runs several stop signs on his way back. Dustin pictures the city in his head, trying to work out a new strategy that will take him to the bridge.

During his exasperating trial of solving the city-scale maze, he witnesses the undead. What once were citizens are now mindless eating machines. The soldier had called them ‘sharks on land.’ Dustin is able to observe them up close within the safety of his car like a wild animal park. Their eerily slack faces and grotesque wounds have a desensitizing effect on him. But when the ghouls no longer faze him, another sight in his rearview still chills his blood--flashing red and blue lights.

Dustin pulls over. The dead are drawn to the less than routine traffic stop, but they are far enough away that the driver of the squad car can risk approaching the youth’s vehicle.

Dustin rolls down his power window before killing the engine.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” the cop asks.

“I ran a stop sign?” Dustin keeps his frantic eyes on the dead coming his way.

“No. You stole my car!”

Strong hands pull Dustin through the open window. Before he can react, he finds himself on the ground looking up at a man with a shotgun. Recognition comes slowly at first, but he knows it is the man from West 8th. Dustin’s words come out in a panic. “I thought you were one of them! You had stuff all over your face!”

“I was a pretty princess, and I looked beautiful.” The man opens the driver’s side door and pulls the seat forward for a little girl to enter.

Dustin is too stunned to scream as the man slides behind the wheel and starts the Camaro. He is about to be left on the road and all he can do is slowly look around at all the dead that hobble ever closer.

The car doesn’t speed off, but the driver calls to him. “You coming or what, Chachi?”

It isn’t the first time Dustin has been called that. Some guys at the factory have mentioned his resemblance to the fictional television character.

He dashes around to the passenger side, staying close to the purple steel in case the offer is an extremely cruel prank. But it’s no hoax, and the man waits for him to enter. His heart is thundering in his chest, but he gains enough composure to finally speak as the car travels through the macabre metropolis. “Th… Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank my daughter.”

Dustin turns to express his gratitude to the girl, but before he can release the words the man speaks again, shaking his head. “Don’t talk to my daughter.”

The self-proclaimed ‘Superdad’ had found himself stranded with the light of his life and no weapons. After the dead moved away from his home, he had snuck to the delivery truck that thankfully had a set of keys hidden in the visor. He brought it home to load his daughter into it, along with whatever he could scrounge as far as supplies. It wasn’t long before he found a vehicle that would offer better protection, and a shotgun. It was only a coincidence that he came across his own car. He and his girl were on their way out of the burbs when the purple Camaro came back towards them.

Dustin reaches into the back for his bags. He pulls out a CD and attempts to slip it into the radio, but Superdad stops him, slapping the disc to the floor.

He releases a frustrated sigh while slumping in the seat. “Where are we going?”

“We, my daughter and I, are going to the Hammond Grand. You are not invited.”

“What’s your problem with me?”

“Grand theft auto aside, it isn’t you, it’s your type.”

“What type?”

“You’re like a finger in the coin return of life. You want something for nothing, no matter how big or small, or how much someone else may need it, or how pathetic it makes you look. You think the world owes you.”

The boy turns away from the truth the stranger rings out, crossing his arms in a pout. “The Hammond is the biggest hotel in the city, why go there?”

“Yeah it’s the biggest. 49 floors and nearly 2,000 rooms, easily containing a thousand zombies. But, the top five floors will be empty.”

“How do you know that?”

“I own the extermination company that won the bid to fumigate the joint. Four floors at a time with one as a buffer so they could stay open. There’s going to be plenty of food, since today is the day they were supposed to start clearing the mini-fridges before we sealed off the first zone. We’ll also have roof access to signal a chopper.” Superdad points at a helicopter in the air overhead. “What’s your plan? Where were you taking my car?”

“North,” Dustin answers while chewing his fingernails. “There’s a place up there called the Flag Pole…”

“The strip joint?”

“Yeah, my band has a gig there in a few weeks.”

Superdad laughs. With the dead lumbering around abandoned cars and the smoke rising up from several burning buildings, he offers advice. “You may want to call first. See if they’ve cancelled or not.”

Dustin feels stupid as he stares at his hands.

“Daddy?” the little girl says from the back.

Knowing her as well as he does, he knows exactly what his kind child is thinking. “No.”

She says that simple word again, only now the tone is different. It tells him that she insists that he do the right thing. “Daddy.”

The father groans, but he’s about to surrender and not liking it. “Look… Chachi, you can come with us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Like I said, there’ll be plenty of food.”

8

Griffin drives in silence through the nightmare the city has become. Kelly is dismayed over the state of her hometown. The sight of the walking dead shuffling through her old stomping grounds makes her want to cry. She would, if she hadn’t already wasted all her tears on Randy over the past three days. Focusing on her hands is her first alternative to looking out the window. Next she looks at the driver who still wears his mask, but the man doesn’t pay her any attention.

It’s the third option that really frightens her. She looks around the car and peers into the backseat, which is occupied by something she finds instantly unsettling. Her own face stares back at her. All over the seat and on the floor are her CDs, magazines with her on the cover, both official and unofficial fan periodicals. Virtually anything licensed to bear her image is stockpiled on the backseat: coffee mugs, stickers, fashion dolls, lunch boxes. Slowly she returns her attention to the man driving, possibly her biggest fan. She now has his full attention as well. For the first time in a long while, she wishes her husband was with her.

9

Randy is unaccustomed to driving in Waterloo. He knows how to get to a few key points of interest: the bars and strip clubs, the airport and the Hammond Grand Hotel, and of course he knows where to find street corner pharmacists. But he has no idea where the hospital is, and has gotten lost due to the blocked roads that force him to double back. The streets are worse now than when he first ventured home early this morning. He had seen the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulances and heard their sirens wail in the night, but now all is quiet save for the occasional pop of gunfire in the distance, or explosions elsewhere. He now wishes he had joined the other two, or at least had his driver, because he’s lost on the wrong side of the tracks. Even before the world went mad, before the dead learned how to walk, this part of the city was no place he’d ever be caught dead in, but he fears now that he just might be.

“Christ! The only white person here, other than myself, is the illuminated fellow on the crosswalk sign,” the comedian laments as the sign goes out. “Even he has abandoned me.”

His soft top convertible stops at yet another blocked road, behind a large yellow school bus. Randy lays his head on the wheel. He’s grown tired of this and doubts that he will ever find the hospital. He is certain the place can’t be as dangerous as the psychopath chaperoning his wife says it is. He hopes to find a physician there with a liberal interpretation of the Hippocratic Oath. One who might give him the medication he wants for a moderate fee.

He knows he obviously will never get there if he just sits behind a bus full of his true nightmare, children, or as he calls them in his act, useless vermin. That’s exactly what he gets. Before the Brit can put his transmission in reverse, the emergency door on the back of the bus pops open spilling ‘tweeners all over the hood of his car. He emits a rather lady-like scream and is unable to function for a moment. Once his trembling fingers find the steering wheel, he attempts to back away from the young-adult zombies that rise to their feet all around him.

“Why’re you all going to school so early, tell me that?” he screams as he hits the accelerator.

He had entered an alley of cars, but the opening he now backs towards is sealed by more of the walking dead. Seeing what these things can do to a person first hand, his neighbors in their own convertible, he had the presence of mind to close the top before departing the estate. The strong fabric writhes above him. He knows he has unwanted passengers up there, but he has no idea how long it can keep them out.

Randy Russell has to move, so he exits through the passenger side of his beloved car before the dead can surround him. He sprints to the curb and vaults a sedan parked at a meter. Already lost, he runs down streets he’s never been on, determining what turns to take at intersections by capitalizing on the safest choices.

Randy comes to a dead end once more, and the zombies are on his heels. A few police cruisers have been pushed against one another by a large fire truck. The building to his right is burning out of control since the responders are now gone. He desperately cups his hands around his face as he looks in the squad cars for a weapon, finding nothing.

He has to keep moving or else the dead will have him. The angle at which the red emergency vehicle is situated allows him to crawl beneath and along its undercarriage. He wants to put the dead end to good use, and hopes his pursuers aren’t as smart as he is.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” he says, once again standing on wet asphalt, surrounded by more corpses.

Many are firemen from the very vehicle he has just crawled under. They advance toward him on broken limbs. Some crawl, unable to use their legs. More zombies are arriving from the connecting streets. He’s trapped.

“Hey, what’s going on out there?” a voice calls from somewhere.

Randy searches for the source and comes up empty. He has his back against the burning building.

“Down here, man.”

Two eyes look up at Randy from a basement window. The glass portal is opaque with spray-paint on the inside and pushed outward. Though the place is on fire, Randy dives in through the tight opening, choosing the lesser of two evils.

The subterranean apartment smells like heaven. Randy Russell picks himself off of the floor to find he is surrounded by flood tables and tall green plants. The ceiling is lined with bright lights that are wrapped in tin foil to direct every possible ray of artificial sun onto the crop. The gracious host hands his guest a hand rolled joint. Marijuana isn’t his particular drug of choice, but not wanting to be rude he takes a couple of puffs to calm himself. “We need to find a way out of here.”

“Why’s that?” the man asks in a serene tone reserved for stoners and clergy.

“You do realize this building is on fire?”

“On fire?”

“Ablaze. Engulfed. Being consumed by flames as we speak.”

“Really?” the man asks. “Shit! I have to save the herb.”

While the underground dweller grabs a hemp knapsack and begins to pluck buds from his illegal crop, Randy gets a bit annoyed. “Fuck the herb! We need an escape plan.”

“No this is a very special strain, man. I cultivated it myself. It’s my baby.” The guy laughs. “My friends and I were eating a whole mess of watermelon once while enjoying my Mary Jane… I got to thinking about how perfect she is, and how I would hate for someone to take her, grow their own plants and mix it with angel dust or PCP…”

“Angel dust is PCP,” Randy corrects.

“Exactly! I thought about the melon. It was seedless. What if I could engineer my baby to be seedless too?”

“That’s very noble, but…”

“Aren’t you that guy?”

“Yes, I am. You may remember me from…”

“You’re the lucky bastard married to Kelly Peel!” the stoner says with joy in his eyes.

“Right. Randy Russell. I’ve been in some movies as well… Have you gathered enough? Can we get a move on?”

“Of course.” The stoner hurries to stuff a few more fistfuls into his sack. “Thanks for rushing in here to pull me out, man, I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it. Honestly, I also wanted to get away from the zombies.”

“Zombies?”

“Yes, zombies! The dead are among us and they’re quite peckish. That reminds me, have you a gun?”

The stoner simply accepts the fact that the dead are walking. He retrieves a rifle from the bedside of the single room space. “Let’s roll.”

Randy takes the weapon, wanting to be familiar with it. The barrel is rather narrow compared to the prop guns he has handled in the past. “Is this a pellet gun?”

“Yeah.” The man nods. “You know, for home defense.”

“What are you defending your home against, tin cans?” Randy hands the weapon back with disdain. “Do they really attack so often you felt it necessary to acquire this thing?”

“No…?” the stoner sounds hurt.

“I’m sorry.” For the first time in his life, he apologizes and means it sincerely. “I’m a bit irritable. I’m going through a small divorce. What’s your name?”

“Gar,” the stoner answers, blissful once again.

“Gah?”

“No, Gar-r. There’s an ‘R’ at the end.”

“That’s what I… Tell me Gah-err, where is the nearest hospital?”

“There’s two that I know of and they are about the same distance from here.” Gar holds his arms out to point towards the general directions they can be found. “Memorial is south in the Hills, and to the north there’s Olive Grove.”

“I detest olives. Take me to Memorial.”

“They don’t have actual olives there… Why do you need a hospital?” The stoner tenses on his weapon. “Did one of the zombies bite you?”

“No, I have a slight medical problem that I must address.”

“You’re sick?”

“Not exactly. I have a small addiction to morphine.”

“I thought you went to rehab?”

“That was for cocaine. I want morphine.” Randy rationalizes the distinction. “We should probably get going.”

With a boost from Randy, Gar climbs out through his window. He hasn’t been out of his apartment in months. He’s just been cultivating his pride and joy, weighing out bags for customers, and hugging the small trees. Many plant lovers will tell you that talking to them makes them grow faster, but Gar feels a more physical expression of love does an even better job.

Reeking of his musty den, he helps the celebrity up to street level. The area is clear. They had wasted so much time the dead had lost interest.

“I was up for a role in a zombie picture back home, you know? They opted to go with some ginger headed fuck instead. Now he’s doing big budget blockbusters, and I’m getting stuck with shitty, supporting roles,” Randy angrily whispers.

“You did the one with the monkey, remember?” Gar whispers back to cheer the man up. He feels like he’s in a movie right now; on a mission, armed, and being covert. “The funny one.”

“I didn’t find it a bit funny!” the comedian speaks louder. “They gave that bloody simian top billing!”

“Did you get paid more?”

“Well, yeah…” Randy calms down, lowering his voice. “It was a monkey after all.”

10

The Hammond Grand is situated a few blocks south of Olive Grove Hospital. The Camaro pulls under the hotel’s awning, where valets once ran to open doors and take the cars of guests away. Superdad kills the engine, and Dustin looks at the gilded revolving door that leads into the darkened lobby.

“We’re just marching in?”

“That’s the plan," Eli, aka Superdad, says. He still hasn't told Dustin his daughter's name. "Staffing should be at a minimum since this sh… stuff happened so early.”

“You said there’s a thousand of those things in there!” Dustin isn't certain he wants to tag along with them.

Eli abruptly hushes him. He drags him down below the car’s windows so they won't be seen by a small band of wandering dead, and he whispers, “This isn’t only the biggest hotel in the city, it’s the oldest. They still use old fashioned keys and real knobs instead of electronic keycards and open-with-ease handles. Anyone dead in their rooms will be trapped there. That’s not to say we won’t have to deal with any threats inside. Some staff, janitors, but I suspect it will be minor.”

Eli checks to see if the coast is clear before laying out the protocol. “We’ll leave our stuff here for now. I’m going to lead us in. Keep my daughter between us. After we secure the upstairs we’ll come back for the supplies, and then jam something big enough into that revolving door it loses its name.”

The three sneak out, staying low. The car doors are closed gently for fear of making too much noise. They remain in their crouched postures all the way to the massive entrance. Having come here several times to research his quote and take a tour with the management, Eli plans to use that prior knowledge to guide them through the dark establishment.

Light from the world outside enters, exposing an ornate fountain that resides quietly in the middle of the vast reception area. It's flanked by plush, curved couches that face it. They proceed through in a tight train, and their leader takes an adjustable lamp from a small table as they do. He steps on the cord and yanks it free from the base of the appliance. A hand is held up to tell the younger two of the party to ‘stay put.’ Eli sees a figure behind the concierge desk.

The late attendant of the hotel paces back and forth in a pale pool of light let in from the front. Once Eli emerges from the shadows, the dead woman’s eyes lock onto him. The ghoul reaches for him as he approaches. He plans on battering the deceased with the heavy base of the lamp, and he does just that, letting it swing on its flexible neck like a blackjack until the zombie goes still.

Emergency lighting illuminates the corridors. Through their glare, Eli can see figures within a large glass elevator. They move slow as they palm the smeared barrier that surrounds them, but they remain trapped and harmless.

Eli inspects every possible hiding place on his way back to his companions. He needs to get them to the employees only staircase by going through the dining area and kitchen. They follow him under a walkway that spans over the reception desk and offices so guests can look down upon the pool area.

Traveling through the gloom, they come to a restaurant in the hotel. The open space is recessed into the floor, with a bar in the middle like an island amid a sea of shadow. A stainless steel breakfast area glitters in the modest light.

The management had shown Eli where his men would need to bring their equipment through, after breakfast hours and before final checkout. The owners wouldn’t want patrons seeing the tanks of insecticides coming in, or the men in coveralls depicting dead roaches. As much as possible, they would need to be discrete.

The breakfast buffet is slick with blood, and a scarlet smear runs across the floor from a swinging door. It leads to the dark sitting area they have just navigated. Eli is about to warn his party, but is too late. His daughter shrieks out in fear. The sound stills his heart, and he pushes past the boy he calls Chachi to get to her.

A man in a white apron has her by one of her blonde pigtails. The dead man has only one arm to use in this painful game of tug-o-war. Her resistance drops him to his knees. The girl hunches over, pulling away as hard as she can. The corpse loses his balance and falls to the floor, taking her with him.

Eli howls an unintelligible roar as he pins the zombie with his knee and draws a blade from his belt. He has to saw through the rope of hair to free his little girl before plunging the blade into the ghoul’s skull.

Dustin is more scared than he has ever been in his life. Near the point of hyperventilation, he feels his nerves abandon him. He becomes very aware of how full his bladder is. A thumping draws his attention to the swinging door that leads to the kitchen as more undead cooks push their way out. Folks who once made a living feeding others are drawn to the sounds of a meal.

The small girl screams again, too petrified to run. The sight has the opposite effect on Dustin, who can run just fine. He rushes out of the nook and into the dark dining room, toppling over chairs and shrouded tables in his mad dash to safety.

As he heads towards the lobby, two figures fall from the elevated walk, landing with a sickening crunch. Before the corpses can recover from the posthumous injuries, Dustin leaps over them like an Olympic hurdler. He doesn’t break his stride until he exits the hotel.

Alone in the Camaro, he tries to calm himself down. He notices his bladder no longer feels full and he smells the warm aroma of urine.

The uncomfortable, cold wetness of his pants aside, Dustin’s hands cease trembling as he places them on the wheel. He is ready to resume his original plan. From here, all he needs to do is take a right and head to the bridge, and then north all the way to Fallen where he can live out his dream.

A helicopter cruises along the street unusually low, taking the path he intends to follow. He watches it pass over the hospital and rows of unmoving cars that he knows will make his journey tough, but hopefully not impossible. The flying craft mesmerizes him as it curiously reduces its altitude once it approaches the expansion. A sudden nosedive transforms the chopper into a fireball.

“Fuck me!”

The motionless traffic becomes a chain reaction of explosions heading his way. His eyes are wide with shock, taking in the rapidly advancing carnage. His brain won’t engage and put the Camaro into gear. Glass shatters in the adjacent buildings due to the concussive force of the blasts. The chaos ceases as fast as it started, leaving Dustin dazed, but he is finally able to put the car into drive and edge to the road. He can’t believe he’s just witnessed such a disaster, or that he just sat there while it closed in on him. He feels ready to proceed, but he’ll just have to find a new route since the Washington Bridge appears to have fallen into the Charles River.

A rumble coming from the right causes him to pause at the mouth of the hotel’s drive. A semi-truck is barreling down the road. It pushes vehicles aside, inadvertently blocking his progress.

“Are you kidding me?” He watches the large vehicle depart. “Inconsiderate fuck!”

He’s trapped. If he wants to drive out of here, he’ll have to get out and clear the cars in his way. Armed with his semi-automatic pistol that is no longer semi-automatic, he exits and cautiously examines the mess before him. It reminds him of a game he used to play on his phone, back when he carried the thing, it featured a parking lot full of cars, and the point of the diversion was to move the cars around so the player could drive one in particular out of the grid. The stakes were never as high as this, though.

Dustin finds a powder blue sedan that isn’t completely blocked. He glances all around the scene while he reaches into the vehicle to steer it away. A white convertible is the next to be relocated, leaving a tight passage for him to squeeze through. Proud of his work, he turns towards the purple car he is about to steal for the second time that day, and comes face to face with a walking corpse.

The dead woman’s throat has been torn out, nullifying the cautionary moans that would have warned him of her presence. The skin is gone from her jaw to her cheeks, revealing bloody teeth and gums. He is taken aback by the gruesome sight, and is about to fire his pistol, when a stomach-turning sound rains down around him.

People are falling from the sky. Zombies are tumbling out of the devastated panes of glass above him, landing hard upon the asphalt, only to rise to their broken limbs. Carcasses smash hoods of cars. The mobile dead roll off and advance on him.

Bodies fall from the awning his car is under, but he can’t get to it. Dustin has no choice but to run away without his music and means of escape. A mass of zombies grows in his wake, following on his heels. He hopes he can find a way to trick them, give them the slip and double back to the Grand. He takes a corner only to find more awkwardly footed ghouls heading his way, drawn to the commotion. Dustin slides under their grasp, scampering frantically to increase the distance between himself and the zombies.

Dustin is up and running down the street. With a healthy lead, he decides to duck into an alley, but hands greet him immediately. He bats them away with revulsion, however these hands are not trying to get a hold of him. They push him away instead, and a voice tells him, “Get the bloody fuck outta here!”

The owner of the British accented whisper hides behind a silver trashcan in a dead end alley. The gun he points makes it perfectly clear that protest and begging will get Dustin nowhere.

He has to go. The dead are coming.

Dustin trips over a trash receptacle as he retreats from the alcove. The drum clatters noisily onto the sidewalk. He grabs the circular lid as he dashes off.

Dustin hides behind a car, biding his time as the hobbling threats near the mouth of the alley. He tosses the trashcan lid at the gap between buildings. The metallic discus propels into the divide he had wished to crouch in. It ricochets noisily off the brick walls like a pinball, and the clanging attracts the dead to the niche.

Screams lure in the rest of the zombies, and it isn’t long until the sounds of resistance cease. Dustin sneaks back towards the hotel, using parked vehicles as cover. He tries to resist but can’t help glancing into the alley. Luckily he can’t see much more than the backs of the horde bent over their meal as they feast.

11

As a pop icon, Kelly Peel is used to obsessed fans. She’s received many letters from men declaring their undying love and devotion, and many from prisoners serving life sentences. She’s even encountered the rare fanatic that shows up on her property, hoping to get close to her. She’s never been this close to one.

The man known to her only as Griffin had simply told her not to worry about all the fan paraphernalia on the backseat. He kept driving, periodically glancing at a crumpled, bloodstained sheet of paper in his hand as he guided them around the walking dead and stalled traffic.

Kelly was uncertain what would be the worst case scenario: being devoured by the dead, or being forced to endure whatever fantasy may be brewing behind that hockey mask. She is determined to make a break from this man the first chance she gets, if she gets one.

“Damn it!” the man growls, pounding a closed fist upon the wheel. He becomes more irritable the longer they are on the road; every turn they take brings more outbursts.

He folds his crusted slip of paper and pinches it tightly between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

Kelly wonders if appealing to his humanity will make a difference. “Griffin, what is that?”

“A list,” his rough voice sounds distraught. “The radio told of some safe places for people to go. They’re all lost. It’s imperative that I get you to safety.”

He had said such things at her home. He never intended to include Randy in his plan, and didn’t make a fuss when her husband decided to go it alone. “Why me?”

“For my daughter.” Sorrow softens his raspy voice. “She was your biggest fan.”

“All this stuff…”

“Was hers.” He is a man who has lost everything he has ever cared about. The collection in his backseat brings a weak chuckle to his throat. His tear glazed eyes have trouble staying in focus. “She knew all of your dance moves. She used to make me dance to your rooster song. Not exactly age appropriate, but it was damned cute to watch her… It’s my fault she’s gone.”

“Why do you where the mask?”

“Burns,” he says simply. After a long pause, he explains further. “Because of an inconsiderate drunk driver, I lost my baby. The car was on fire after the crash. I was thrown from it, but I ran back to save her. I just couldn’t get her belt off. We were both burning, she was screaming for me to help, but a truck full of frat boys pulled me out before I could get her. They meant well.”

The man has stopped their ride in the street. The dead in the city are hobbling closer by the second. He can’t go on like this. His armor covered face rests on the steering wheel so he can weep for his lost child.

“If there was a drunk driver involved, you can’t…”

“I was the one driving drunk,” he admits. “It was a family reunion. I thought I could handle it.”

“What was her name?” Kelly collects as many of the relics belonging to her number one fan as she can grab, and a marker from the floor, intending to sign every last object.

He turns to her, and the human eyes behind the mask bleed tears of sorrow while saying ‘thank you’ at the same time. “Shelly… My Shelly.”

12

“Not cool, man!” Gar scolds his partner on the roof of a building. They had been lucky to find a fire escape they could reach from the top of a dumpster, but the homeless guy that had popped out at the worst possible time wasn’t so fortunate. “That kid just wanted a safe place to hide.”

“It was him or us,” Randy counters. Neither man can look down to where the street person is now being mauled, finding it bad enough to listen to the sounds of the feast.

The stoner heads for the opposite side of the roof. Smoke is rising from the direction they had intended to travel, and he witnesses the aftermath of the gigantic explosion that had sent them for cover in the alley. The path to the hospital is blocked by burning wreckage.

“Oops.”

“What do you mean, ‘oops?’”

“I was supposed to take you south to Memorial, but we’ve been going north. Olive Grove is down there, and I don’t think we can get to it now.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The man known for his relentless mirth and acid tongue sits, feeling horrible. Even if he can get his hands on some morphine, it won’t dull the pain. He really has nothing.

“Hey, didn’t you say back at my place you were getting divorced?” Gar asks.

“Do you always kick a man when he’s at his lowest point? Can’t you see I’m depressed?”

“I was just wondering what happened,” Gar sheepishly adds.

“I’m a shit! That’s what happened,” Randy blurts the truth. “I cheated, and promised to clean myself up for her, but I am nothing but a liar.”

“You cheated?”

“Yes.”

“On Kelly Peel? Were you high?” The stoner is suddenly not so innocent, and more cogent than Randy has seen him so far. “First, it’s a scuzzy thing to do to someone you love. Second, it’s Kelly friggin’ Peel! Who can compete with her? She’s perfect. What did this other chick have, three boobs?”

“There were many, actually,” the comedian admits.

“Whoa! How many did she have?”

“No, not… I mean, I cheated on Kelly with several women,” Randy clarifies, watching the stoner light a fresh joint. He doesn’t offer him any and he can’t blame him.

After taking a moment to return to his base line, Gar continues to think about the pop diva. “I remember this one video I saw online. She was in Iraq with the troops, and she found out it was one of the guy’s birthday. She gave him a total lap dance. She kept her clothes on, but I was like ‘I’m totally joining the Army!’”

“She is beautiful.” Randy nods.

“She’s perfect.” Gar expounds the sentiment, mentally picturing the woman in all her photos and stage costumes.

“Are you thinking about my wife?”

“Yeah,” the stoner says in a dreamy admission.

“Can you stop that, please?” Randy requests. “Seriously, while I’m right here?”

“Sure, give me a second.” Gar squeezes as many images as he can into his mind’s eye. “Kay! I’m done.”

“In my country, they often speak of people ‘marrying well.’ It means they’ve found someone that complements them and takes care of them. Kelly can never be accused of that. In fact, I’d say she married quite poorly. I’m here with you, chasing a fix. She’s out there somewhere with the type of guy she should be with. He’s all strong and heroic, probably looks like Brad Pitt under that hockey mask. She deserves him.” Randy Russell stands with indignation. “Not on my watch!”

“Where are you going?” Gar asks his famous friend, who is heading for the fire escape.

“I’m off to find my wife amid this terrible shit, and reconcile with her before she realizes what a mistake it will be. Fare thee well, Gar. I shall remember you fondly.”

“Just speak from the heart, man!” the stoner calls after Randy Russell as he descends the ladder, leaving him sitting alone upon the gravel rooftop. It takes a while for it to dawn on him that he is all by himself in a city overrun by the dead. “Shit! Now what am I going to do?”

Gar hurries to throw his beloved bag of weed over his shoulder. Armed with his air rifle, he follows the comedian. Randy skitters from object to object in hopes of remaining unseen by the carnivorous corpses. He rolls over the tar like an action hero without the years of seasoning or the athletics. Covering the comedian’s back, the stoner mimics the man’s antics as they head east.

Randy had felt an initial sense of hope upon deciding to locate his wife and make things right between them. Now he realizes his chances of finding her in the urban jungle that burns around him are slim, and slimmer yet is the chance she'll forgive him. He finds it reassuring to have not encountered a zombie yet during his selfless quest, until he rolls clumsily into a cluster of them emerging from a cross street.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaims, trying to roll away.

The dead fall upon him as he resorts to scooting along the ground. His tight legged jeans threaten to slide off of his hips. The man tries to bat away their hands when the need arises, but it’s no use. A bloated corpse that looks as if he was quite bloated in life too has him by the belt. The zombie is wearing nothing but a robe and his unmentionables dangle, making the already terrifying affair even more horrifying to the victim.

Randy can’t pull free from the nearly nude ghoul’s clutches, and a very hungry mouth draws near. Inches from finding a soft place to bite, the dead man’s head wobbles, distracting him from the task at hand. Buried below the moans of the horde, another quiet shot is fired from an ineffective weapon. The indecent zombie shifts his attentions to this other morsel that pumps his rifle repeatedly, and it’s just enough for Randy.

The comedian can see the mass of dead are torn between him and Gar, and he uses the precious seconds to unbuckle his belt and slip free of it and the zombie. He takes off, away from danger. With some space, he risks turning to see his acquaintance. Between him and his friend is a wall of death that follows the stoner towards the bombed out traffic to the north. Randy isn’t sure what surprises him more--the fact he wishes he could help Gar, or the fact he actually feels bad for continuing on without him.

This is stupid, he thinks. I’ll never find Kelly in all this. I should just find a safe place to stay. The Hammond Grand Hotel is the only place he’s ever truly felt comfortable in Waterloo. The expense and the opulence appeal to his selfish nature. He was told he couldn’t stay there any longer due to a scheduled fumigation of the penthouse floors. They can’t kick me out if they’re all dead.

##

Winded already due to his diminished lung capacity, Gar jogs away from the zombies. On his return trip, he sees corpses appear from all sides, undoubtedly drawn to the sight of his and the comedian’s previous jaunt. The burning cars loom ahead and he isn’t sure if there’s a way around them. He fears he may become trapped, and it is no relief when a man steps in front of him, holding a bloody machete and wearing a hockey mask.

“Oh, fuck!” The startled stoner skids to a halt and scampers away. “Wrong movie.”

##

“Who was that?” Kelly asks her guide. A shabby man is retreating from the sight of her companion and heading towards where the Washington Bridge once stood.

“I dunno,” Griffin says, puzzled. “I told you to stay in the car.”

Griffin had stopped to check on the viability of yet another safe house that proved to be anything but. A local homeless shelter was reportedly taking in those left out in the chaos. People who had no way to get home and apparently never would. But when Griffin looked in the window, he found the only reason the place could be declared safe now was because it stopped all of the zombies inside from harming anyone on the outside.

“I know…” Kelly Peel’s words are cut off when Griffin thrusts her back towards the Intrepid.

“Get in!”

A throng of corpses are coming their way, and he has no doubt they are looking for the shabby, odd-smelling man he met briefly. The zombies are on him, pawing at his face. The mask is removed in the clumsy assault, but Griffin can’t worry about hiding his scars. He must protect Kelly. So he kicks them back to gain room to swing his blade. He lashes at the dead with vengeance until satisfied he has done enough damage to the pack to slow them They trip over their fallen as he can races back to his daughter’s idol.

##

In the valet circle of the Hammond, Dustin is trying to squeeze his car through the gap he has made. He checks both sides repeatedly to ensure he doesn’t scratch the paintjob. A mob of dead are among the standstill traffic he reverses through, and one slaps his hands on the windshield. Its face is shiny as if it was made of pink plastic, and its features look melted and distorted. Safe again behind the wheel of the Camaro, Dustin wants to punish this one for startling him, and to make himself feel less like a coward. He lowers his window halfway to poke out the barrel of his pistol. Then he fires a single round into the candle wax face before pulling onto the road.

##

Kelly screams from the passenger seat of her savior’s late model steed when she sees him fall. Griffin had been on his way to her when another vehicle appeared and cut off his path. The driver just shot him. He lies motionless on the road, the vow he had made on his daughter’s behalf unfulfilled. Alone, with only a trove of her own pictures to keep her company, Kelly is scared.

The pop star slouches in her seat, feeling foolish for watching her guide’s lifeless body, as if he may pull through. The zombies make it clear that he isn’t going to help her as they begin to eat his flesh. She trembles in the idling car, but she finally takes her eyes off of the man who was bent on rescuing her and she cries. Her face is cradled by the man’s headrest as she breaks down. Kelly hates to admit to herself that she would have been better off at home with Randy instead of being here stranded among the dead.

The crumpled slip of paper, the list Griffin had compiled, is upon the driver’s seat. She looks at it through tear blurred eyes, finding only two places are left--the local YMCA and the Army Reserve Depot. She composes herself, planning to see this through. If all else fails, she knows she can always go to her home in the Hills.

Able to move with ease in her lounge wear, she lifts herself over the center console and behind the wheel. By her nearest estimation, she should have just enough fuel to see how well the alleged rescue stations are faring. The car crawls away, drawing the dead from Griffin’s limp body. The zombies follow futilely, falling behind in her wake. Her own voice has been playing on repeat very low since she autographed Shelly’s collection; the man had asked if it was all right. Kelly switches it off, not wanting the reminder of her fame. It’s not what she had expected.

Every girl in her church choir had dreamed of making it to the pinnacle of celebrity Kelly Peel ‘enjoys.’ They all emulated the pop divas of their generation, hitting and holding notes far too high and for way longer than desired by their choir master. And their over the top hand gestures and affectations had drove the man insane. Kelly has made it to the top, but all she has been wishing for since hitting her apex is obscurity. She longs for the ability to just sing for the love of singing and not the greed that consumed her at first. Companies wanted to pay her obscene amounts of money just so they could put her face and name upon useless artifacts of the era, but she regrets selling out with all her being.

She picks up speed, weaving around the inanimate objects in her way, and those that are quite animated. The thought of striking a walking corpse makes her sick, but the urge to run over one shambling figure in particular makes her smile. She sees her husband step into her path. He waves his arms to make sure she sees him and knows he’s alive. She isn’t slowing down.

At the last minute, she applies the brakes, stopping mere inches from the unfaithful man. His wide eyes are thankful as he rounds the front fender, keeping his hands on the hood as if the vehicle may speed away without him. Randy collapses breathlessly into the passenger seat, but that doesn’t last long.

“Sweetie… I know I haven’t been the best of husbands. I know I have adulterous tendencies and have committed countless trespasses against you and our wedding vows… many occurred that same day, actually. But, I promise, never again… I realize that I’ve promised that before, however this time I mean it.”

His accent used to charm her, but now he is a gnat in her ear. He keeps talking as if waiting for her to forgive him, if only to shut him up. All she cares about is finding a safe place. As far as she’s concerned, they are through and he is just wasting his breath.

Randy attempts a new tactic. He speaks to her like a parent trying to tell a child about the birds and the bees, “When a man and a woman love each other very much, one of the pair is often unfaithful. The terrible infidelity can actually lead to a beautiful thing--forgiveness. The mistrust and betrayal can inadvertently strengthen the bond between them.”

Kelly doesn’t speak, she just drives the car. She is worrying she may not have enough fuel after all as she is forced to backtrack occasionally due to obstructions.

“I’m in no way excusing my actions when I ask you to look at it from my perspective, but we were, and still are, newlyweds. This brings a certain urge for us to have sex all the time. Where I would have preferred it to be with you, with your hectic schedule, you were not always available. Please do not blame yourself for my transgressions. I take a full 85 percent of the accountability.” Randy draws a line in the air between them with his hand. “I think the buck stops here. Or, maybe about here.”

He can’t be serious, Kelly fumes. The gnat in her ear has become a fat bumblebee that is trying to squeeze its way into her brain. The man beside her crosses his arms in a pout over being ignored, then he falls into silence. Shot nerves make it difficult to enjoy the hiatus from his droning, but she also knows it won’t last. Randy is unable to go too long without making his thoughts known to all.

“Where’s Leatherface?” he asks in a snit.

“Dead.”

The delivery of the news is so blunt and softly spoken he can’t think of what to say. The curse of needing everyone within earshot to know exactly what is on his mind has a tendency of getting him into trouble. He miraculously filters his first impulse. Good.

He watches his wife steer the car, seeing her sorrow over the man she had only met that day. He’s jealous of him, and he has to wonder if she’d be as sad if he passed on. He buries the thought and slips into a rant about Griffin, because he needs to discredit the man to make himself feel better. Such deflections are also his curse. “He was a complete nutter. Not keeping a completely kosher house, if you catch my meaning…”

Usually, his berating of others and his mean nature affects Kelly like water off a duck’s back. She lets his unkind words slide, but now she is getting mad. What she once found charming, just a part of his act, she now finds infuriating.

“He’s like Nyquil. Keep out of the reach of children…”

A sudden application of the brakes tosses Randy forward as Kelly chops his throat with the edge of her hand. He gasps for air while holding his bruised windpipe, silent once more.

She points her index finger straight at his eyes. “Not one more fucking word!”

13

After he watches the semi cut a path of destruction, Dustin sees a large military helicopter cruising overhead. It makes him think how much he’s looking forward to getting out of the city and heading north to the big gig, even if it’s not there. It’s a long way to the top if you want to rock and roll.

The light at the end of the tunnel approaches when he nears the final intersection, but an olive colored obstacle rolls into his path. He screeches to a halt, looking up at a massive military truck that he almost collided with.

The soldier behind the wheel shouts down at him while pointing to the corner of the road. “That’s a stop sign!”

A second figure in camouflage rounds the front of the troop carrier. A rifle, like the one he was promised earlier today, is aimed at him, and the man pointing it looks to be about Dustin’s age. He exudes confidence when he speaks. “Sir, you’ll have to follow us.”

“I’m on my way north…”

“I’m not asking, sir.”

Dustin nods, willing to comply, for now at least. The first opportunity he gets, he plans to make a break for it, wanting nothing to do with this city anymore.

The truck grumbles around the corner, heading into the very place he has been trying hard to get out of. Dustin has his foot poised over the accelerator; he knows that oversized behemoth will have no chance of catching his car. But the truck clears the way, revealing another set of headlights shining at him. Now sandwiched between these two vehicles, Dustin has no choice but to perform a U-turn and follow. The second vehicle flashes its brights to indicate he should do just that, and he becomes a part of the convoy that heads deeper into the very industrial park he wished to escape.

Dustin Barnes has never been to this part of the park. The unmoving traffic thickens as they near the high walls of the National Guard’s recruit depot. Civilian vehicles clog the entrance to the small base in a haphazard arrangement born out of desperation. People wanted in, but those turned away for being bitten now walk in the spaces between the tightly packed bumpers.

The trucks pull up against the wall and Dustin follows suit. Soldiers and civilians pile out of the back of the carriers, while riflemen position themselves between them and the meandering threats that advance, but most of the zombies are thankfully trapped amid the congestion.

Dustin follows the living into the base, where he and the other survivors are handed off to a new crew of soldiers armed with clipboards and ballpoints.

The refugees are split up according to gender and ushered into tents. They are told to strip down and surrender all weapons. Dustin is told to extend his arms and turn around while naked so he can be checked for bites. Though the process is for everyone’s best interest, he feels embarrassed and demeaned. His pistol, and the few rounds he had on him, have been confiscated and placed in a clear bag embossed with his name in permanent marker. Those who have passed the inspection are herded away once dressed, and those who had failed are never seen again.

Among the battery of questions asked of the survivors were personal inquiries: do they have children, and where are their families? Dustin feels a twinge of guilt as he follows the group, because he hadn’t even thought of his mom and dad until he was asked about them. He hopes they’re all right.

The base makes him think of his grandfather. The man had been in the army, and he wonders if this is where he went to boot camp when he was Dustin’s age. He knows they used to drill here before an influx in enlisters forced them to move training to a larger facility. This base was given to the reserves as a depot for drilling and disaster relief. The refugees are brought to an open bay barracks that once slept sixty men uncomfortably back in the day, yet is now deemed suitable for ninety.

Three rows of steel bunk beds line the squad bay with little space between. Men, women, and children who have already settled into the shelter fall silent as the additional occupants are led in and told to find an empty rack to sleep in.

Dustin walks down the narrow rows of staring people, making it halfway down one before he discovers an empty bed. The moment he adheres the nametag they gave him to the head of his mattress frame, the soldiers tell the mass of salvaged souls that it is time to eat.

14

Gar has made his way to Memorial Hospital. He didn’t need to evade the dead that followed him after fleeing from the slasher, which is good considering a sharp pain in his side had caused him to slow. For some reason, the zombies just passed him by as he limped along. The stoner had to scratch his head over this and wonder if they thought he was one of them by the way he was moving.

The parking lot is a mess, because folks had parked in the aisles of the Emergency Room entrance in their imperative times of need. He has to climb over the hoods of cars, and maneuver around one that stopped inside the lobby. The expensive luxury sedan had destroyed the glass vestibule and careened into the admissions desk.

The corridors are dark and eerily calm, and not a single echoing moan or shuffling foot stirs.

I’m here, now what? Gar asks himself, never being one for strategy. He presses on through the scary halls, wondering if there may be someone in need of help. Another joint is lit to ease his nerves, but the tension in his chest is compromising his breathing.

While tiptoeing around toppled gurneys and fallen bodies, Gar hears a rustle. He can’t lock down the origin, nor does he know where he is since it is his first time in this hospital, and his first time on this side of the city. Rifle pumped to its maximum pressure, he slows his steps and listens to what sounds like feet sliding along the floor. The person stumbles, spilling over a wheelchair that skitters into view from an intersecting hall.

Gar inches closer, keeping to the opposite side of his hall. He sidesteps at the corner, wanting to know if the individual is undead, but fearing what the truth may be. The shadow is too thick to see anything but the outline of a person hobbling his way. So he brings his rifle up to his shoulder and aims at the mystery. But just as he is about to pull the trigger he hesitates, because he doesn’t want to shoot a living person. Gar is aware his weapon isn’t exactly lethal, but he does know from catching a ricochet once that it hurts like hell.

“Hi,” he says

The simple greeting is answered by a flash of light and a mouse-like sneeze. Gar falls to the linoleum floor, covering his face to protect himself from the bullet. But the round whizzed past his cheek.

“Whoa! Stop shooting!”

“Keep your voice down,” a voice whispers.

“You’re the one shooting,” Gar counters defensively.

“With a silencer, putz. If you go around screaming, you’re going to bring those things down on us.”

Gar nods in the darkness, oblivious to the fact the man can’t see him. “Do you need help?”

“You want to help me?” the guy sounds skeptical.

“I think I came here for a reason, man. I don’t know what it is exactly, but maybe it’s to help you. I’m Gar. What’s your name?”

“My name is of no consequence,” the man groans. “Sorry for shooting at you. No offense, but you smell like shit. I thought you were one of them… Do you mind if I take a drag?”

“Not at all!” Gar answers proudly. He grabs some ganja from his pocket for his new smoking partner. “It’s my own creation. You’re gonna love it.”

“Help me walk, pal?” the man beseeches, with the joint pinched between his lips.

“You go ahead and enjoy that one, man. I have a whole stash in my bag. Sadly a lot of it was lost. But, I have seeds. I can rebuild it. Where are we going?”

“Even in a place like this that caters to the richest of the rich, they have a section reserved for VIPs. I need to get to the chapel.”

##

Veronica Wilkes still waits in the chapel named after her late husband. She is expecting news about his cause of death, and is ready to pay his killer if all has gone according to plan. He should have been here by now, she thinks to herself, keeping her distance from the others in the dimly lit place of worship.

For most of the day, she has been alone in the quiet hall, with only her cell phone to keep her company. Not long after her battery failed, the others arrived. A man in a wheelchair whose head is completely bandaged with gauze like the Invisible Man, and an apparently insane person in an orderly’s uniform that speaks nonsense about people coming back from the dead. The lunatic is so paranoid he actually moved several of the wooden pews against the door to protect them from his delusion.

The man she had hired to kill her husband said he had access to a poison that should go unnoticed. The virtually undetectable toxin degrades over time, becoming nonexistent during a postmortem, unless the examiner goes against the directions of a close friend and becomes too thorough for his own good. The hired killer said he could take care of that, assuring her that he could be very persuasive.

Veronica has been debating leaving for the past several hours, for she fears that the hitman has run into trouble. The same type of trouble she will be in for if the hitman surrenders her name to the police.

##

Gar takes the man’s weight onto his shoulders as he leads him through the dark halls, and his companion appears to gain weight with every step. The man is bleeding from his neck, badly. The well-dressed individual has his gun hand pressed against his wound to stave off the inevitable, but he’s looking weaker by the second. His insides are in knots, he confesses to Gar, cramping to the point he can barely move his legs without bringing sharp pain to his abdomen. His stomach muscles feel as if they are about to tear apart with each contraction, he won’t stop until he finalizes the transaction.

A short flight of stairs is a trial for the both of them, but they make it to the VIP wing, where private doctors and nurses tend to those who can afford such luxury and discretion. The entrance to the reserved ward is barred with a magnetic lock that can only be released by use of a keycard. Through a narrow window, they see there are lights on beyond the portal.

“Do you know how to open it?” Gar asks the man with no name.

“I got a key,” he replies, aiming his silenced pistol at the top edge of the barrier. Here, powerful electromagnets still hold strong due to the long life generator solely dedicated to this unit.

Another mouse sneeze accompanies the muzzle flash that knocks the seal from the door. Gar reaches for the handle and pulls it open with ease, but the hard part is keeping it open while aiding the man inside. They remain quiet, and the presence of the lights running along the ceiling above them in rows makes Gar feel vulnerable. While they walk, the man points with his gun, indicating the path he wants the stoner to take.

The sterile white walls are streaked with bloody handprints and splashes of red, and the floor is slick with it. Gar has to lead the man cautiously around the puddles of gore. The absence of bodies has the stoner concerned.

##

The three inside the chapel are startled by a sudden clamor behind them; the wooden doors are being rattled against the benches the orderly had moved in front of them. The medic jumps, his body shaking with anxiety. He saw what those things can do to people and is having nightmarish visions of it happening to him. The calming hand of his bandaged patient relaxes him.

Only one of those present seems happy about the sound.

“Finally!” The widow stands to answer the caller’s violent attempts at entry. She slings her purse over her shoulder, ready to make the final payment to the hitman and be out of here.

The beautiful blonde widow walks gracefully towards the doors. Once the transaction is complete, she has been assured she can’t be implicated in her husband’s death.

But her intentions turn the orderly’s concerns to terror. “Don’t open that door!”

She ignores him, attempts to move the heavy obstructions, but is unable to budge them. The doors continue to batter against the dark wood seats, where folks of affluence once prayed for their loved ones, but the brass handles turn in vain.

Watching the lady in the slim black dress struggle puts the medic at ease, he can actually enjoy the sight of her toned body at work, and how the short hem of her skirt leaves little to the imagination when she bends over.

His patient reaches up and pats his shoulder to get his attention, then he points to the widow. He gives the bandaged man a nod and a wink, but the patient shakes his head and points to the woman with more resolve.

“You want me to help her?” he asks with bemusement. The patient’s nod makes his stomach lurch.

But his patient makes a reassuring gesture to indicate it will be all right. So he slowly makes his way to the woman to aid in opening the doors.

Once the pews are relocated, the medic has the duty of unlocking the only thing holding back the dead. His fingertips pinch the latch, slick with perspiration, and freeze in place. He takes several quick breaths while he bolsters himself before finally snapping his fingers and rushing away.

The tall double doors are swung inward by two figures; the light from the hall behind them counteracts the dim, romantic lighting of the chapel, shrouding their faces. The new arrivals dash in as more figures fill the archway. Then the men slam the heavy panels shut and relock the knobs.

They are both armed, and the one holding a pistol crumples against the door, holding a hand to his throat. The woman in black takes a step forward but recoils from what accompanies the two--a pungent smell coming off of the stranger that crinkles her nose.

She addresses her paid assassin while holding a finger under her nostrils. “Is it done?”

“Yeah.”

“It took long enough,” she snaps. “Don’t tell me that doctor gave you trouble.”

“Where’s my money?”

“You’ll get it, after you assure me that I won’t have problems with the authorities.”

He can only laugh at her concerns about the police, considering the state of things beyond this room. “Oh, I think you’re the least of their concerns now.”

“You’ve been bitten!” the medic says. He pulls his patient away from the infirmed hitman. The farthest he can roll the chair is to the pulpit, due to its elevated platform.

“Don’t worry, I’m not staying.” The hitman forces himself to stand under his own power. “As soon as she pays me for services rendered, I’m gone.”

“I have you on your word that I won’t be linked to this.” She crosses her arms, holding her clutch tightly against her breasts. “There are three loose ends in this room, eliminate them and I will pay you, Mr. Of-No-Consequence.”

Gar, not knowing what to make of all of this, joins the other two in silent observation of the transaction. He nods acknowledgment to his fellow survivors, oblivious to the concerned look on the orderly’s face or the bandaged visage of the man in the chair.

“I don’t have many rounds left,” the assassin explains. “I’m not about to waste them on these clowns.”

“You will do as you are told if you want your money. You came highly recommended. Now…”

The silenced weapon is pointed at the woman’s pretty face. “I had to kill your hubby twice, you bitch, after I watched him tear into that doctor we bought. I made it here through all sorts of crazy shit to get what’s mine. Give me my money.”

From the sidelines, three sets of eyes watch the drama play out. Gar can’t help but react with awe, and he whispers to himself, “Wow!”

“Take it!” She hands the man a bundle from her purse. “Wait… What do you mean you killed him twice?”

Cash in hand, the man smiles, but before he can answer her question he crumples to the floor. The widow just stares at his lifeless body for a moment before cautiously reclaiming her expenses.

“Is he…?” the orderly asks.

“Fucked if I know,” she says callously. “I’m not a doctor.”

Neither am I, the medic thinks to himself as he warily stalks closer to the fallen man. He fears the gunman may in fact be dead, and he knows what happens to those who have been bitten, but he also knows the man said he had bullets in his gun. The smelly newcomer with the rifle follows him to the body.

The medic places two fingers to the side of the hitman’s neck, but he can’t locate a pulse. “He’s gone.”

The medic claims the pistol, gaining confidence though unfamiliar with the weapon.

The hitman rears from his resting place, and his gloved hands wrap around the orderly who screams out in terror as he is forced to the floor. The pistol is useless to him now, for it is pinned between his chest and the hardwood. The nameless ghoul bites into the back of the medic’s neck to quell his growing hunger.

“Oh, shit!” Gar exclaims when he comes in range of the zombie. He fires a round that sounds like a whiff of air, and is just as effective. The lead pellet barely penetrates the undead man’s scalp, let alone his skull.

Repeated pumps of the hinged hand guard are needed to prime his next shot. Another barely audible discharge merely draws the zombie’s attention to him, and the creature disregards the prey that no longer fights him in favor of the living quarry that frantically readies yet another pellet.

During Gar’s attempts, the man in the wheelchair stands. He kneels near his dead attendant, flipping his body to get the pistol. The zombified assassin is almost to Gar when the bandaged patient fires again, standing his ground.

Two mouse-like sneezes, not much louder than Gar’s pellet gun, sound off. The bandaged patient has dropped the hitman, and put a preemptive bullet in the orderly. He stands before Gar, and the widow who now believes the impossible story about the dead roaming the hospital. As Gar and the woman watch, he removes the wrappings from his face. The long white strips of gauze slowly reveal a familiar face.

“Hey, I know you…” Gar says, unable to place the African American man’s name.

“Freeman?” the woman says.

“Hello, dear,” the man responds kindly.

Gar watches this new twist unfold before him. He continues to try and place how he knows this man, while tracking what’s going on.

“I… I was told you were dead.”

“I imagine that wasn’t much of a shock to you, now was it?” Freeman’s voice is calm and composed as he speaks to the woman “How much did it cost?”

“A quarter million,” she says quietly.

“I’m insulted.” He smiles. “Considering how much you stood to inherit, I’d think you’d spare no expense, employ a professional that might make sure he had the right man.”

“Who was he?” his wife asks.

“My brother,” Freeman Wilkes says solemnly. “My twin brother.”

“No way… ” Gar says. “That’s fucked up.”

“You don’t have a twin brother,” his wife says.

“Not one anybody knows about. Mason was always the black sheep of the bloodline, and accordingly was kept out of the public eye. He fell on hard times; addicted to illicit substances, in over his head with the wrong people. I gave him a means to escape all that and live the good life.”

Gar cannot believe the day he is having. First, he is saved from a burning building by Randy Russell and forced to travel through a city of real life zombies, then he has a close call with Jason Voorhees, and now he’s witnessing a soap opera before his very eyes.

“Wow!”

“How else could I be everywhere at once, always where people needed me the most?” Freeman continues. “The use of doppelgangers isn’t my invention; world leaders have been doing it for centuries. Even our country’s own president…”

“Ooh! And Doctor Doom!” Gar points out.

The woman is obviously angry with her husband’s life sustaining subterfuge. She’s a betrayer betrayed. “Which of the two of you did I sleep with?”

“It was me, at first…”

“You had me fucking a stranger?” she roars.

The much older man coyly responds, “That isn’t too dissimilar from you and I, now is it?”

Gar can’t help but laugh at that. Oh shit.

Freeman continues, “What was it Jackie-O said? ‘The first time you marry for love, the second for money, and the third for companionship.’ I do believe I am your second husband, not that you’d admit it. I did my research.”

“And I’m your third. I was just a companion?”

“More of an accessory really, for appearances. A man of my age and means is supposed to have that smiling young bride that makes all other men even more jealous,” he says. “The second I saw you in Vegas, I knew you’d make a fine piece of apparel. You being a Vegas born girl, I also knew one day you’d cash in your chips.”

“You sacrificed your own brother.” She looks at him with obvious disdain.

“Don’t judge me. I gave him a better life than he could ever have provided for himself. I gave him money, respect, you. I let him enjoy all those carnal provisos in our prenuptial agreement, half of which I only added to see how deep your resolve truly was. For your follow through, you stood to receive a massive life insurance pay out.”

“I stood to get everything.”

“That isn’t entirely true.” Wilkes shakes his head. “You never did see my final will.”

She looks at him like a child that has been told a fib. “You said I was the primary benefactor…”

“We told each other many things. As I had quoted, the first marriage is for love. It is Vivian, my first wife, that would have received half of my wealth. I love her to this very day, and that’s actually what lead to our divorce. I was trying so hard to make sure she had everything she could ever want that I became obsessed by my work. She never wanted to be rich, she just wanted me around.”

After a few moments of silence, Gar’s curiosity makes him ask, “Who would have gotten the other half?”

“Well, my twin brother of course,” Freeman says, as if it should be obvious.

“Then, you would be him!” Gar says.

“Exactly. With his identification, I would emerge to take half of my own wealth. I would, in keeping with Mason’s reputation, put myself into a rehab facility. Upon completion, I’d make a sizable donation to a charity or two, most likely a children’s hospital. Then, after the media had had their fill of me and I was old news, I’d simply fade away.”

His wife doesn’t understand his reasoning. “Why would you walk away from all you have, settling for only half of your fortune?”

“What do you get a man who has everything?” Freeman asks. “Peace… Even with my twin making half of my appearances for me, bolstering the reputation I have for being everywhere at once, I felt tired. So many people and causes, all fighting for my attention. The charities, the government agencies, even you, my dear, became incessant panhandlers.”

He says such awful things to her without a shred of malice in his voice. Then the man’s kind eyes move from his wife to manger, who watches in rapt attention. “How do you do? I’m Freeman Wilkes.”

“That’s who you are!” Gar points at him, happy to have a name to match the man’s face.

“That’s what I said.” He smiles with a playful shrug. “Who might you be, friend?”

Gar shakes the wealthy man’s hand and says, “Garfield Colt.”

“Is that Garfield as in the cat, or the president?”

“My grandfather.”

“That would have been my next guess.”

“You’re the richest man I have ever met. Didn’t you just donate a shit ton of cash to Olive Grove Hospital?”

“Two shit tons to be more accurate. That facility is woefully out of date and in dire need of some TLC.”

“Wow! You’re voice sounds like smooth jazz,” Gar says then immediately wishes he hadn’t. “Fuck, that wasn’t racist, was it?”

The black man chuckles. “I have a feeling you’re the type that couldn’t be offensive even if he tried.”

“Except for his smell,” Freeman’s wife quips.

“Sorry about that,” Gar apologizes with embarrassment. “My shower is broken. I usually go to the YMCA, but I haven’t been able to get there for… a few months.”

“You haven’t bathed in months?”

“Or, done laundry.” Gar’s honest nature doesn’t allow the omission.

The doors to the chapel are being slapped by the dead things in the hall. They’re obviously drawn to the voices. Freeman Wilkes ejects the magazine from the pistol and sees no rounds. “I only have one in the chamber. I think we should probably move on before they find a way in.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” His wife shakes her head.

Freeman is on the pulpit of the small chapel named after him, and he has opened a small hidden panel just under a large wooden crucifix. After a series of numbers are depressed on a keypad, a secret door opens next to him. “Veronica, the world is no longer a place for you. A woman who refuses to wear the same outfit twice will never survive.”

He doesn’t wait for her answer, he simply enters the opening. Gar follows with Veronica begrudgingly in the rear. The three descend a long staircase after the covert door closes behind them.

“When this wing was built, I made sure they installed generators that would last for weeks in the event of an extended blackout. I also had them add this for me,” Wilkes explains.

“Where does it go?” Gar asks.

“My secret lab, where I make all my pharmaceutical advances.”

“We have a lot in common,” Gar tells the powerful man. “I have a secret underground place where I make advances. I developed my own strain of weed, and it’s the dopest dope you’ll ever smoke. Wanna try some?”

“Perhaps later, Mr. Colt.” The man smiles kindly.

At the bottom of the stairs, they enter another sterile white hall. Nothing stirs that they can see, and all they hear is the gentle whoosh of the air conditioner. Veronica shivers against the chilly air.

“Do you want my shirt?” Gar offers.

“Fuck no,” she snarls.

Undeterred by the disgusted face the beautiful woman has made at his offer, Gar poses a question to Freeman that has bothered him for years, “Who cleans it?”

“Pardon?”

“In the movies and on TV, I always see these secret labs, you know, I’ve always wondered who cleans them. Are there janitors with super-secret clearance? Or, do all you super-secret scientist types just take turns mopping?”

Freeman Wilkes cracks up, and his laughter echoes down the long, empty hall. “No, Mr. Colt, we don’t have janitors with ‘super-secret clearance,’ no double-oh 4-0h-9s. We scientist types try to pick up after ourselves.”

Deeper down the hall, they come to a bank of windows smeared with blood on the other side. The panes are sound proof, and they can’t hear the dead folks in lab coats pounding on the glass. Wilkes stops to look at the remains of his research team.

Veronica scoffs. “I guess you’d better grab a mop, honey.”

He ignores her, leading them to a room adjacent to the ghoulish chemists. They follow along the filthy panes as faithfully as they followed the man in life. Once inside, Wilkes hit a large button to seal the three of them in.

Gar is anxious about the presence of the deceased in the next room, and his anxiety erupts from him in a torrent of words that keeps his mind off of the zombies. “Like I was saying, I developed my own strain of marijuana. I dream of one day, when it’s legal, wandering the country, living off the land and planting my seeds. Just spreading the love, you know. I think most of the troubles of the world can be cured by Mary Jane. Being in pharmaceuticals, what’s your opinion on its medicinal use?”

“I’m all for it,” Wilkes says, with his back to the man as he peers in a steel cabinet. “It certainly has been proven effective in helping a lot of people. So, you wish to be a regular Johnny Appleseed?”

“Yeah, I would love that!”

Veronica sits on an examination table. She ignores what she considers ‘asinine banter’ and elevates the backrest so she can relax. The blood splattered inhabitants of the other room are hard to look at, and even harder to ignore. She can’t believe this is happening. All her planning has been for nothing. The bundle of money she holds is worthless.

Freeman Wilkes is holding an object that piques Gar’s interest. It’s a small glass vial filled with a bright green substance. The wealthy man stands, holding the sample to the light, pondering the contents.

“What is that?” Gar asks.

“A souvenir,” Wilkes says. “During the early days of space travel, samples were brought back to Earth. These artifacts were subjected to extensive sterilization as a precaution. Upon one rock claimed from the moon’s surface was a green speck that could not be killed. They attempted every means: chemicals, radiation, gases, nothing worked. Once it was exposed to oxygen, under controlled circumstances, it reproduced exponentially. The only way to contain it is in a vacuum.”

“That shit’s from space?” Gar asks, his eyes wide with amazement.

“Yes.” Freeman is lost in his own mind. He returns with a laugh, “It’s ironic. It was never given a proper name, just labeled ‘Sample Six.’ Since humans developed the ability to do so, we’ve sought to name everything on the planet and beyond. Leave it to the one thing without a moniker to be the thing to kill us.”

Palpable silence follows. Gar looks to Veronica, who appears to have actually taken an interest in the discussion. She in turn looks to the dead at the windows. The slaughtered flesh looks like meat under shrink-wrap. “You caused this?” she asks.

“No.” Freeman alleviates her suspicion. “Six years ago, the substance was accidentally released by one of my researchers in a gaseous form. We held our breath, literally, as well as figuratively… Nothing happened. Over the following weeks, traces of the substance were being discovered all over the country, then the world. It wasn’t effecting people in any way, though we now all harbor it, but it’s just been taking up residence. We continued to use it for its regenerative properties, and many cutting edge drugs have been made with this as their derivative. While the others chased the fountain of youth, I branched off into experimenting with ways to counteract it, should it ever pose a threat…”

“Like today!” Veronica shouts.

“The other shoe has indeed fallen,” Freeman agrees. “And I have yet to find a way to fight it. It just sat in our bodies, innocuous, until it finally decided to strike. I still don’t know exactly what it is that I am holding. Is it some alien life form’s means of conquering an entire planet? Or perhaps God just sneezed one day and this is a mere germ, capable of eliminating life as we know it.”

“Whoa!” Gar can’t believe how heavy this has gotten. “There’s no cure at all? No vaccine?”

“Not yet, but I have a theory.” Freeman punctuates his statement by firing the last round of his pistol into his wife. The quiet bullet enters her chest, right between the perfect breasts he had paid for.

Gar is horrified. “What the fuck!”

“I debated hard on this, Mr. Colt--which of you two to use as which ingredient of my plan,” Wilkes tosses the spent pistol absently onto a counter. “Though I can think of many uses for her, I’d soon grow tired of her incessant bitching. You amuse me.”

Gar can only stare at the still woman on the exam table. Freeman Wilkes quickly binds her hands to arm rests he raises and her ankles to retractable stirrups. He makes fast work of securing her body, and then tosses Gar a bottle of pills. “Take these.”

The words on the bottle might as well be in another language, and Gar is shocked beyond the ability to read. “I’m not into pills.”

“Don’t tell me a big time drug peddler such as yourself is afraid to take a couple little pills.”

“I’m a Potsmith!” Gar makes the distinction. “You’re a drug dealer!”

Freeman stalks toward him. His words are no longer smooth jazz in Gar’s ears, but spine tingling slams of piano keys. “Do you know why marijuana has the effect it does?”

“Because it’s awesome?” Gar cringes.

“No, Mr. Colt. Not because it’s awesome. Marijuana does what it does as a means of reproduction. It entices silly little creatures like monkeys, or yourself, to ingest of its buds. Its aim is for them to spread the seeds in their scat, or as you put it ‘spread the love.’ The herb that you revere, and positively reek of, is just using you. Seriously, the stench coming off of you reminds me of the Amorphophallus Titanum, also known as the Corpse Flower. It mimics the smell of rotting flesh to attract flies.”

The words hurt Gar, as if the man has hit him. He feels like he’s just been told that Darth Vader is his father. The foundation of his life is shaking beneath him, and he has no way to stabilize it. “You are Doctor Doom.”

“Cute,” Wilkes says. “Take the pills. They’re just immunosuppressers. I need to use you like you use the water pipe you undoubtedly own. It probably has some clever name. Bongzilla, perhaps?”

“King Bong,” Gar admits weakly.

“Once my wife arises, and the pills have weakened your immune system, I’m going to filter the virus through you. If my theory holds, and they usually do, you will be right as rain.”

There’s no way to tell if this man is lying about him surviving the process. Gar has too many questions to comply. “Why? If the world is gone, why go on?”

“What do you give a man who has everything?”

Gar remembers the answer to the question from when it was posed upstairs. “Peace.”

“Correct!” Freeman cheers. “You leave him the fuck alone! No hands out wanting to be filled, no bald-headed sick children. I plan to make for my mansion and wait out the apocalypse in peace… You are of course invited. As I told you, you amuse me.”

The damage has been done, and Gar now knows this man is truly a bad guy. So different from the kind hearted man he had portrayed himself to be. Gar can’t help but formulate a plan of his own, for he wishes to stop this evil doer and become a true hero even if it kills him. The Potsmith rushes to the wall of hungry corpses and slams the button to open the door that stands in their way. Wilkes screams as the dead fill his personal lab.

15

The meal Dustin consumed from a compartmentalized tray sits heavily in his gut. Any remorse he may feel over the day’s events is pushed away. Now he just wants to sleep, but the near constant whoop of the choppers and the din of his fellow survivors make getting any shut-eye impossible. He wishes he had his music. A pair of ear buds would lull him to sleep like a baby. Making matters worse, he was saddled with a top rack and now lays directly under a blinding fluorescent light fixture.

He’s also waiting to use the bathroom. The roving watches that keep a constant headcount of the evacuees, as well as the peace, have told the people that to avoid problems men will only be allowed to use the bay’s single, yet multi-user, bathroom during odd hours. The women have the run of the lavatory currently.

Impatient men who aren’t shy have been relieving themselves into empty water bottles, but that isn’t the kid’s problem. Dustin wishes to get cleaned up after relieving himself in his pants earlier. His legs were saturated with urine, and no they feel prickly. The smell emanates from his denim, and he prays that it’s only noticeable to himself.

Quite a lot of other men are poised on their mattresses awaiting their turn in the latrine too. Each counts the minutes until they can rush in like hockey players headed for the penalty box. They cradle thin towels wrapped around small army issued bottles of Prell and bars of Zest. Everyone was given a small white mesh bag of toiletries upon entry, and Dustin was happy to find a comb in his but no hair gel. He wonders if he may be able to borrow some from someone, or perhaps the base has a market.

The last lady exits the bathroom. Before the sentry announces that the men can go in, Dustin bounds off of his top rack, aiming to be the first through the door.

The large, poorly lit space is wall-to-wall beige tile, and the room is divided in the middle by a wall with banks of sinks on either side. Toilet stalls with no doors populate the left portion of the latrine, but Dustin makes for the far end where the showers are.

The showers aren’t what he is expecting. Sprayer heads stick out from the tiled wall within a small room beyond an antechamber of benches and hooks, and there are no doors or curtains for privacy. His hesitation at the threshold raises a grumble from the gentlemen assembling behind him, who also want to get clean. Men begin to undress all around, and his eyes widen.

Dustin steps aside to let men pass him before he commences to bashfully undress. He has lost his opportunity to be one of the first to bathe. So he waits, third on deck to enter the steam filled room with countless naked men behind him. He tries to act casual around all the bare skin. Some of the guys make jokes about ‘dropping the soap’ that he forces himself to laugh at.

16

It’s dark by the time Kelly finds the final location on Griffin’s list, the Reserve Depot. The car grumbles and complains, because it has been running on fumes for much longer than the pop star can believe possible.

The gate is a mess of haphazardly parked vehicles, and she has trouble finding a way to the entrance. Taking the Intrepid onto the sidewalk, she manages to squeeze in, and she spots movement in the dark between the car clusters.

Spotlights hit them from the top of the stone wall. Randy speaks for the first time since being silenced by his ex. “I’ll do the talking, honey.”

The comedian exits his side of the car to approach the figures standing in the glare. He shields his eyes from the bright glow, but before he can even say a single word he is again silenced.

“We’re at capacity! We can’t admit any more people.”

“Perhaps you don’t recognize me…” Randy takes a step closer.

“I’ll put a round in your face if you don’t back off, Ringo.”

Kelly feels exhausted and emotionally spent, and she just wants to get inside where it’s safe. She knows just how to do it. It’s her turn to step out of the car, and the action makes her the new focal point of the sentry’s attention, just as she wants. “Hiya, boys.”

“Holy shit! It’s Kelly Peel!” the guard says excitedly. “Open the gate!”

17

Back in the sack, just in time for lights out, Dustin finds it hard to drift off to sleep. Nightmare images are conjured in his mind of the horrors he had seen that day, and the drastic actions he had taken to survive it all.

Just as he is nodding off, he is stirred once more by a clamor. More survivors are being escorted in the already packed squad bay. With the bustle of the newbies settling in, and their grumbling about being displaced for some VIP, he knows he won’t be finding sleep anytime soon. He rolls onto his stomach to look out the windows that surround the crowded room. The lights of the base, powered by gas generators, filter in through a veil of condensation. The room’s temperature rises due to all the body heat contained within on the cold night. He can see the soldiers bundled up outside, and is actually envious as he breathes in the muggy air.

##

Dustin grabs a few hours of slumber before the need to pee awakens him. But he is stopped at the latrine door by a new soldier on duty who says he must hold off until a lady finishes in there. The woman takes her time, oblivious to the dancing Dustin outside. He must fight the urge to pound on the door. She finally emerges and he rushes in, muttering his frustration. “About fucking time.”

The anticipation of relieving his bladder actually makes the act enjoyable, and he lets out a sigh that echoes in the vast room of hard surfaces. Dustin hums different tones, listening to the walls vibrate more and more the deeper he goes. He daydreams of forming a new band and releasing an album, and how this hypothetical LP could contain a bonus track of his band and him in a room such as this messing around with harmonics.

Dream over, he heads for the door, hoping to catch some more sleep while he can. A reflection in the long mirrors along the sinks catches his eyes, and he sees something he needs. Dustin grabs the item thinking, things are looking up. A small jar of styling gel. Not his brand, but it’ll do. He opens the lid and smiles, because plenty of the thick compound remains.

Three fingers of goopy product are added to his thick black hair. While styling his cherished locks, the door opens. Considering the rule, he knows it must be another guy.

Among the effects given to the refugees was a pair of plastic shower shoes, and the cautionary footwear makes a lot of noise upon the hard floors. Dustin fights against a cowlick as the man who has just entered walks closer, one rigid sandal slapping against his heel while the other scrapes along the tiles.

“How’s my car treating you, Chachi?”

The voice chills Dustin. A ghost in the mirror over his right shoulder glares at him. A rage powered hand clamps itself tightly over the boy’s mouth, preventing him from screaming for aid. Pain seals his eyes shut as the man he had wronged punches him repeatedly in the kidney. “Tomorrow, when you’re pissing blood, I want you to remember my daughter.”

The angry man releases the breathless Dustin, who holds onto the sink to maintain his balance. A single blonde pigtail is tossed into the basin before his tear blurred eyes.

18

The lights flare on, rudely awakening the huddled masses pulled from the city. A bugle informs them that it is indeed morning. Dustin lingers on his thin mattress until his numerous roommates are almost gone. Then he slides down from his high bed and takes his time, since he doesn’t want to run into the man from the bathroom yesterday.

Disorderly masses of people wander to the mess hall. Soldiers patrol the herds like shepherds. At breakfast, people tell their respective tales while shoveling artificial eggs into their mouths. The rumor mill buzzes about Kelly Peel and her husband being on post, and about an alleged shortage of camo clad individuals. Dustin’s own inspection reveals this to be true--the ratio of soldiers to civilians is frighteningly low. There are only a dozen in the hall, sitting together for breakfast, and a few circulate among the dining civilians. Dustin knows there are probably few outside keeping watch, and by his count there can only be twenty or so. That’s not good.

Halfway through the meal a young soldier stands up with a clipboard, and he taps his pen against the metal clip to get everyone’s attention. “At zero nine hundred hours, all of you must assemble outside for an announcement from our commanding officer.”

Shortly after the word spreads, people start to bus their trays to a square window in the wall. The soldier who had spoken again attempts to be heard over the din. “The following people must report to the armory before the morning meeting…”

The short list of names is read off; all the while Dustin cites a mantra he often did during high school. Not me. Not me. His heart falters when his name is read off among the rest of the roster. The drone of the names and the clamor of the civilians becomes muted as his brain races to divine why, of all people, he needs to report to the armory.

##

Dustin heads to the designated muster as instructed and is put in line with the other clueless men. He notices they are all his age, and look equally nervous. They are asked their shoes size as fatigues are held against their bodies to determine size by comparison. Uniforms are handed to them, then they are led through the pillbox building to receive equipment. At the end the young men are handed new pairs of combat boots to weigh down the unsteady loads they carry upon their forearms. The clipboard wielding soldier, Deatherage by his nametape, takes a look at Dustin’s work boots and declines to issue him the GI shoes. “Those’ll do.”

Behind the building, the guys are instructed to change into their fatigues. A handful of doughboys help the wide-eyed gentlemen sling olive harnesses and belts around their torsos properly. Gear is attached to these with metal clips. Heavy canteens and pouches now weigh down their sides.

“Helmets and rifles will be issued after the meeting,” Deatherage tells the drafted recruits before they are dismissed.

Dustin can’t contain his objections any longer. If the others won’t speak up for themselves that’s their problem. “I can’t do this. I’m no soldier.”

“Take it up with Master Sergeant Quincy at the meeting,” he is told.

##

“Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a slight mistake. I am not the actual commanding officer. I am simply the highest ranking individual left on this base, MSG Quincy.”

Dustin stands in a row with the others who had been called to gear up. They face the crowd of survivors, while the gray-haired sergeant’s gravelly voice echoes in the chilly morning air. He feels sick as he listens to the old war horse.

“We have lost many good people out there, and there are no reinforcements on the way. This outbreak hasn’t only stricken our beloved city. It’s spread coast to coast. As far as we know, it’s global. We have no choice but to abandon Waterloo and head to another facility, Fort Eagle Rock up north. We originally wanted to fall west to Fort Foster, but as of 2 AM this morning we have lost contact. Since we know Eagle Rock is still standing, that is our goal.

“You may have noticed that, just beyond the gates, we have a clusterfuck of vehicles. We have also accumulated several fans. Between our helicopters, our lights, and our general activities, the dead have conglomerated at our only exit. We have heard rumors that the cold weather is actually slowing the zombies, but we aren’t so lucky here. Our fair city is burning, so the ambient temperature is much higher than freezing.

“We have enlisted the help of some volunteers through a random lottery to aid us in our escape. Two teams: Alpha and Bravo. Team Bravo will scramble to the Greyhound station to procure buses that’ll make our exodus easier. Team Alpha will be luring the dead away from our gates so the rest of us can clear the congestion from the front door…”

Oh shit! Dustin thinks, looking over the assembled mass depending on him and the other unqualified ‘volunteers.’ Amid the solemn faces, he sees the man whose car he stole yesterday staring daggers at him. On Eli’s shoulders is the blonde girl, and she has only one pigtail sticking out from the side of her head and an equally venomous glare. Though he is relieved to see her alive, the look she casts him is like a kick to his groin. He knows about karma yet he can’t help mutter, “I don’t deserve this.”

The gritty voiced leader glares at Dustin, looking annoyed at his lack of respect. Obviously fuming, he stomps over to stand inches from Dustin’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

“I didn’t say nothing.”

“You didn’t say nothing? Well, that means it was certainly something. Why don’t you enlighten me as to what that something was?”

“I… was just wondering why I was chosen.”

“Were you not paying attention? I said it was a random selection that has rescued you from the lugubrious task of sitting on your ass, writing in your dream journal, and texting your BFF. By divine fate you have been given a purpose, a meaning to your existence. Of the available souls, we had to eliminate those who have children to care for, and we further whittled out the females…”

The man’s eyes flare with anger, though Dustin hasn’t said anything. His seasoned senses seem to have picked up on what Dustin is thinking.

“You want to know why, don’t you? Why in this modern age would we opt to exclude ladies from these dangerous assignments? Let me answer your unspoken inquiry with a question of my own. Are you physically equipped to gestate a fetus in your belly?”

Dustin’s response comes in the form of a whisper. “No.”

“NO!” the man repeats loudly for all to hear. “Humanity’s first defense against annihilation is procreation. Children are the most valuable resource we have, as is the means to create them. Any asshole can jizz. You’re living proof of that. What’s your name anyway?”

“My daddy calls him Chachi,” a small voice answers from the crowd, making the congregation laugh.

Quincy’s eyes gleam with delight. “Chachi!” he repeats gleefully, pulling another chuckle from the crowd.

Dustin’s body feels hot from the embarrassment, and the heat radiates up from his collar. The man isn’t done with him, having just been handed great ammunition.

“Shit, son! I loved you on Happy Days.” Quincy steps close to Dustin, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Look, Chachi, one way or another you’re going over that wall. I recommend you go willingly, well-armed, and with people who will watch your back and ask only that you do the same for them.”

##

Teams Alpha and Bravo are told to hit the latrines before departure. The remaining civilians are divided between the mess hall and the armory to load supplies onto a pair of deuce and a halfs.

The scarlet urine stream Dustin expels into the urinal is a shock at first. He remembers the little girl he had left for dead and her father who understandably wanted retribution. When finished, he slowly makes his way to the west wall with his head hung low. They were ordered to assemble at this location to receive their weapons before they leave the safety of the base.

Dustin is the last to arrive. The one named Deatherage is wearing a combat helmet while handing out similar headgear and assault rifles. “Don’t let what happened back there get you down,” he tells Dustin with a supportive smile. Despite his surname, Deatherage is quite calm; he pronounces it for the group again. “Death-er-ridge.”

He can’t make eye contact due to his residual humiliation, and if he meets anyone’s gaze he may just burst into tears. “What’s that guy’s problem?”

“You can’t take it so seriously, Chachi,” another young soldier says, giving a laugh that tells Dustin they have all been there. “He just wanted to motivate you.”

“That isn’t motivation. Motivation is a pretty picture on a poster with words like ‘cooperation’ or ‘inspiration.’ That asshole is just sadistic.”

The civies are shown how to load and prime their M-16s. Dustin can see an immediate difference between his rifle and those of the real soldiers. Theirs are jet black, where the borrowed weapons are grey in color and make a distinct rattling sound when jostled.

“Is it supposed to sound like this?” one of the drafted men asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine. The receivers are just loose. Yours have been used for training, probably since Vietnam,” Deatherage replies before continuing the truncated instruction session. “Your weapons have three settings: safe, single fire, and what’s known as rock & roll.”

Dustin’s ears perk up at the name of the third position.

“…don’t use rock. It expels a three shot burst and will just piss away your ammo. Speaking of ammo…” The soldier holds up an ammunition magazine. “Call it superstition, but tap the back of each mag on your helmet or boot before you load it. It’s said it’ll line up the rounds and prevent a jam.”

Deatherage demonstrates what Dustin saw the portly soldier do yesterday in his Altima. He tenses as the teams are called off from a list. He’s on Team Alpha, so he’s bait. He can’t decide which job is more dangerous--luring the dead, or fetching the rides.

“Hey guys!” MSG Quincy calls to them. “Go ahead and take your time. We got all day.”

The sarcasm ignites a fire under the soldiers. Deatherage issues the order for them to get up the wall using ladders. Dustin watches his teammates ascend, growing more and more nervous. He has a brainstorm, an idea that may save them from unnecessarily risking themselves. “Why don’t we just use a flamethrower, or something?”

“The United States Armed Forces haven’t used flamethrowers since your rifle was brand new, Chachi,” Deatherage levels with him. “Get up the wall.”

Team Bravo heads to the corner of the wall near the road, while the alphas move to the left. After their team leader reaches the top, the men pull up the ladders for their descent. Twelve men in all crouch on the narrow stone surface, and even the seasoned soldiers are nervous.

“Let’s get this done,” Deatherage tells the others.

He’s the first on the ladder. His instructions are simple: lead Team Alpha in the task of luring the zombies away from the base so that Team Bravo can make for the bus station and the remainders can clear the road. Then they are to double back so they can all evacuate.

He hasn’t had much experience with the dead that have overrun the burning city. Deatherage was on post when the call of duty was announced. His job in supply puts him low on the action roster, and by the time his number came up they were hunkering down in preparation to pull up stakes. He is more scared than he lets on, but if not for the blazes he’d call this a ‘cake walk.’ However, the fires are creating pockets of hot air that are keeping the dead warm. The ambient temperature is well above freezing, so the urban dead will be faster than those outside the gates.

The team of six men travels on foot away from the depot. Should they get pinned down, or find too many survivors to walk back safely, they have a shot at an airlift home. Vehicle use was secured around midnight, out of a desire to save fuel for the trip to Fort Eagle Rock, but a chopper is on standby for them.

Deatherage takes a breath so he can talk confidently. He doesn’t want to show any signs of his own fear in hopes of alleviating theirs. “Ready for your first shooting lesson?”

The mob that loiters at the front gate has not yet noticed the six young men meant to lure them elsewhere. Deatherage explains the sights to the civies. He wants each to take a shot before they take off.

“Headshots only, one shot each. Just relax and take your time.”

The first man up is a guy named Ryan, who drops the target pointed out to him on his first attempt. The next shooter, Shawn, needs two tries; his first round deflects off of the cheekbone of a corpse in blue sweatpants, shearing off its left ear.

“I got him!” Dustin cheers after his first shot impales his target’s chest. The hordes’ attention is being drawn to the group.

“He didn’t drop,” Deatherage clarifies. “Again.”

Dustin’s second round misses the mark entirely, planting into the face of a different factory drone. “That one fell.”

“You weren’t going for him, were you?” Deatherage reminds the pupil. He knows rushing the kid will not help matters though the advancing dead is starting to make his heart race. “You’re going for the one in the blue hoodie. Take one more then we gotta move.”

The mass of awkward bodies close the distance at a snail’s pace. They are far enough from the fires that the cold air from the previous night has affected their joints, making their movements sporadic. The sights are lined up, and Dustin tries to control his breathing and nerves before squeezing the trigger. The result makes the zombie in the sweatshirt fall to the cracked asphalt and causes the gang to cheer.

“Good job, Chachi!” Deatherage congratulates. “Let’s do this.”

The men follow the centerline through the cheaply constructed factories and warehouses. They travel at a speed just fast enough to stay ahead of the dead yet still keep them interested. The two other real soldiers, Jackson and Collins, are in the lead, and the noobs are centrally situated. Deatherage takes the rear, and he walks backwards to keep an eye on the zombies. “Slow it up, guys. We’re getting too far ahead.”

“They were faster yesterday,” Dustin says.

“How much time did you spend out here with them?”

“All fucking day.”

“Movement ahead, Rage,” Collins reports from the front.

The leader of the pack breaks ranks to see the road before them. A few handfuls of mobile dead are rounding a corner three streets down. “Move left. We’ll give them some space and take ‘em head on.”

Collins and Jackson lead the rookies to the side of the road while taking beads on the zombies. Deatherage nudges Dustin. “Go get some, Chachi.”

At this close range, Dustin finds shooting much easier. He scores three headshots before his weapon is lowered by the team leader. “I forgot to tell you, your mags hold twenty rounds. Try to keep track in your head. You don’t want to get caught in a tight spot on empty.”

Dustin has to think about this, pondering how many he’s fired. “Six? I’ve fired six, right?”

“Yeah.” Deatherage laughs. The soldier takes a small pair of field glasses from his gear to look back toward the depot, over the slack faces and bobbing heads of the deceased. “There goes Team Bravo. The buses are on Main Street. We need to get them heading away, lose them, and double back.”

With the rest of the inbound dead no longer standing, Team Alpha continues moving away from headquarters.

The man named Shawn asks nervously, “How will we know when to go back?”

“They’ll radio,” Collins answers, pointing at a black device on his belt.

Jackson looks back over his shoulder to make eye contact with Dustin. “Chachi, what can you tell us about these things?”

The nickname no longer bothers Dustin; he’s actually starting to like it. It makes him feel as if he’s a part of something important. Like for the first time in his life he’s making a difference. To answer the question he paraphrases what he was told yesterday, “They’re sharks on land. Always on the move, tracking food by sight, sound, and smell.”

“Smell?”

“Blood,” Dustin says. “They can smell our blood.”

“How long does it take, you know, to change?” the soldier asks.

“Hour or two. I haven’t seen it firsthand.”

Tracking by sound, the dead appear ahead of the soldiers. The very gunfire that cements their demise draws them closer. The living walk casually, but are being forced to take a diagonal path least they become intercepted by the zombies.

The civilian named Shawn tucks his rifle under his arm and holds it against his body so his shaky hands can light a cigarette. “Any word from HQ?”

Collins chuckles. “It’s only been ten minutes.”

“Why don’t we grab a car?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Dustin agrees. He nods noncommittally, not wanting to appear weak. In actuality he wants desperately to be protected by a vehicle.

“There.” Deatherage points to a wood paneled station wagon. He must ask the obvious question before ordering the men to double time over to it. “Who can hotwire?”

“I got it,” Jackson says. The door is unlocked, so he slides under the steering column. With his lower back resting uncomfortably on the floor, and his feet on the ground, his compatriots take positions around the car.

“You should drop the ‘E,’” Dustin suggests to Deatherage from their posts at the rear of the wagon.

“Huh?”

“Drop the ‘E’ in your name legally, and then start a band.”

“Yeah, I’d be a real headliner: Calvin Death Rage.” He laughs at the concept.

The smirk the soldier wears is erased by moans of corpses sauntering closer to them on the passenger side. He yells to Collins to cover the area, and Ryan comes around from the right side to help. Shawn is nowhere to be seen. Over the wails of the dead and the intermittent gunfire, Deatherage hears the rapid plod of heavily booted feet. He follows the sound to see a civilian running away. “Where the fuck is he going?”

“Looks like Mission Ave,” Dustin replies, considering their present location. “Going home, I guess.”

The leader shakes his head with disappointment at the coward before turning to the advancing threats and taking aim. “I’ve heard that before. What you said about my name.”

The man waits to tell Dustin more so he can concentrate on his shot. “You see a lot of odd ones in the military. I worked with this one Mexican fellow named Moises Areola.”

Dustin just smiles while Deatherage laughs. He doesn’t get it.

“The areola is the dark part around the nipple…” Deatherage explains. “He was two ‘T’s away from a wet tee-shirt contest… I hear it’s actually a common name south of the border.”

Collins comes to the rear and sees the AWOL man exploiting gaps among the dead in his retreat. “Prick got an armed escort halfway home and a free gun.”

“What’s touching me?” Jackson inquires with annoyance while working on the ignition, and then he screams.

“Shit!” Deatherage rushes to the driver’s side door.

The scene makes the leader’s stomach drop. One of Jackson’s legs flail wildly, while the other is being held by a female zombie as if it was her lover, but instead of lavishing it with kisses it gnaws insatiably.

Deatherage slams the butt of his rifle savagely against the ghoul’s head, but it refuses to release its lunch. The zombie has been stripped of any scrap of clothing from the waist down, as well as any flesh. Bloody bones scrape on the tar as Jackson writhes in agony. The corpse’s tattered shirt tears away when Deatherage attempts to pull her off by her collar.

Jackson continues to scream out in horror, for the woman’s teeth have made it down to the bone. Her teeth crack his femur and chew on the marrow. The man’s rifle had been set on the hood since he was expecting everyone would have his back.

Deatherage had fallen backwards when the woman’s shirt gave way to his yank. From this position, he yells out, “Chachi!”

Dustin moves in, pressing the barrel of his M-16 against the zombie’s head and firing. Not even he could miss this close. The door panel becomes splattered with blood and brains, as does the windshield and parts of the dash.

Jackson replaces his agony with anger. “Where the fuck were you guys?” The man kicks the dead girl away. The sight of his ravaged leg makes him shiver, and he must divert his eyes. Collins kneels before him with an olive drab bandage to field dress the injury. Dustin catches a glimpse of the devastation before it is dressed, and it’s a bright red mess with white shards of broken bone. He winces with sympathy pain.

“You won’t want to put any pressure on that leg until we get a proper splint on it,” Collins advises.

The dead are closing in on all sides now, and they still need the car started. Deatherage must get them back to the task at hand. His voice wavers, and his confidence is failing, “Guys, let’s stick closer to the door. Jackson, I hate to ask…”

“I still got this,” the infirmed man groans. He eases himself back under the wheel, being careful not to bump his leg. Once he has the station wagon rumbling, his friends get him into the back after they push debris out of the way--a pile of dirty work uniforms and empty soda bottles.

The radio Collins carries squawks, and the Master Sergeant’s voice rasps, “Team Alpha! Come in, over.”

Collins is too busy trying to get Jackson comfortable in the car that smells of industrial oils and stale cigarette smoke. He hands the radio to Dustin. “It’s for you, Chachi.”

“What?” he answers the handset without saying over. To Dustin that just seems redundant, he knows I’m done talking if I stop talking.

There is a pause before Quincy comes back over the line. “I need you boys to get those things around the bend so my movers can get out there, over.”

“They haven’t even started yet.” Dustin’s words are high pitched from the shock. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, you little shit! Nobody talks to me like…”

“You’re the douchebag that put me on the payroll, so get used to it.” Dustin simply switches off the unit. The others look at him with expressions that range from pride to disbelief. “Wrong number.”

The men all board, and Dustin takes the ‘way back.’ Jackson laughs at his lack of protocol.

“I’ll handle the radio, Chachi,” Jackson says. “He’s gonna be pissed when you get back to base.”

Dustin isn’t concerned about Quincy’s wrath. He plans on becoming a civilian once again as soon as the job is done.

19

The wood paneled relic protests when Deatherage tries to shift it into reverse, and he must force the gearshift on the tree. The zombies are all around the car, yet they are no longer a threat. The soldier makes no effort to avoid striking the carnivorous pedestrians. He had hoped to see at least a quarter of a tank displayed by the gas gauge, but they have less than an eighth to work with as they roll down the street Ryan had taken on foot.

To no avail, the dead try to grab the men who cruise past. Considering the state of Jackson, and the fact they have lost the other guy, Dustin has to ask. “Why don’t we just go back?”

“We can’t. Not until we get the order,” Deatherage responds. “Once they have the buses ready and a hole made, they’ll call.”

Jackson switches the radio back on for when the brass call them home. “I’m in no hurry. If I only have an hour or two, this is how I want to go, cruising around with the boys. All we’re missing is some brews.”

The look on the dying man’s face is serene. His eyes are closed as he obviously imagines that he is touring the strip on a Saturday night.

“I can’t believe there’s no cure for this shit,” Collins says.

“Sure there is,” Jackson counters without opening his eyes. “I’ll get my dose the second we pull into HQ. A bullet to the skull.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Deatherage sadly says.

“The fuck it isn’t. I know what they do to folks who arrive with bites.”

“They stopped using bullets as of yesterday afternoon,” Deatherage reveals. “I imagine they didn’t want to scare the civilians with the constant shots, or didn’t want to waste the ammo. They’re using a nail gun now. Requisitioned it from supply around noon.”

“Good to know I’m not entirely screwed,” Jackson bleakly quips.

The weight of the ‘cure’ fills the car, pushing out all chatter. The men have fallen into despondent silence. Deatherage turns on the radio for a distraction, but the stations are playing nothing but static or repeating recorded messages instructing folks to stay indoors. Aid stations are listed for those who are out in the thick of things, and more than half of the places named have fallen to the dead.

##

Without the comfort of music, Jackson decides to utilize another form of male bonding, indulging in the tradition of regaling his friends with a lurid story. The recount is of a trip he and a buddy had taken to Tijuana a while back when he lived in San Diego. Like most tales of TJ, it involves copious amounts of alcohol and poor decision making.

“…There we were, drunk off our asses, not a dime between us after paying this chick her asking price for what we wanted. We didn’t have enough for the five dollar cab ride to the border. We certainly didn’t have enough to buy condoms. So, we decided to share the one we had, turning it inside out between our turns. By the grace of God we found our way back to the states afterwards.

“The next day we wake up, our heads are splitting. Ironically, I found a condom in my wallet that had been in there since junior high. Of course, by then it’s too late because the two of us are pissing razor blades.”

The guys share a laugh at the volunteered disclosure, and even more after Jackson adds fuel, “It seemed like such a good idea at the time.”

The wagon is propelling itself in drive without the use of the accelerator. Deatherage wants to keep the zombies enthralled with them. The living are creeping out of the industrial park and onto Washington Avenue with the dead in tow.

A familiar face greets them just before it is torn off by two ravenous ghouls. The man that had abandoned them screams for them to stop and help him.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Jackson says, craning to see the gory scene better. He nudges Dustin. “Can you believe that pussy just ran off like that?”

“No.” the Dustin hopes his eyes don’t give away the true fiber of his own character.

“We’ll need gas soon if we want to make it back,” Deatherage announces.

The wounded man shifts uncomfortably, removing an object from below his rump. He looks at a coiled length of tubing. “I’ll get us gas. Pull over somewhere safe.”

“Not on that leg,” Collins negates.

“That’s exactly why I’m the lucky duck. I’m dead anyway.”

The wagon pulls alongside the cars parked against the curb on the left side of the street. Deatherage guides using his mirror to line up their tank with that of a Neon.

The condemned man strips off his H-harness, and he leaves all of his gear and his weapon on the seat. At the donor vehicle he begins the process. Jackson reaches back into the car to take one item from his equipment--a hand grenade. He damn sure doesn’t want to become one of those things, and he certainly doesn’t want to be put down with a nail gun. “After I’m done, you’ll want to get far and fast.”

Deatherage sees what the man has acquired. “Are you sure?”

“It’ll be a blast.” He smiles devilishly. “If I can wipe out the pack, you should be able to return to base, right?” Jackson looks back to view the horde heading his way, then removes the hose and hands it to Deatherage. “You may need this. You have enough to cruise for a while and get home. It’s been interesting, fellas.”

Jackson pulls the pin as the station wagon takes a right out of view. They wait for the impending boom, but it doesn’t come when expected. Back at the Neon, the bait hobbles to the other parked cars, opening their gas tanks to let out the vapors. He wants to achieve the maximum carnage possible.

The station wagon is well down the road by the time the ground shakes from the explosion. After the initial blast, they hear subsequent eruptions, like aftershocks. A wall of flame fills the rearview, and Deatherage shakes his head. “Chachi, call command. See if they’ve pulled their heads out of their asses yet.”

“Hello?” Dustin says into the handset. “Is anybody there?”

“Come in Team Alpha, over,” a new voice greets him.

“Did you guys get your heads out of your asses yet?”

“Roger that. The hole is made and the buses are on route. Bring it in fellas, over.”

The men in the car cheer over the permission to come home, despite the loss of men. The driver takes a right that should take them all the way to the industrial park, but all in the car are thrown forward when the brakes are slammed. “Jesus!”

“That’s never a good sign,” Dustin says from the very back of the wagon. “What’s wrong?”

“Exactly what I said.” Deatherage indicates ahead of them. “It’s Jesus.”

Lying across the road is a massive wooden crucifix that has fallen from where it once stood in a churchyard. The top portion landed on a bus stop bench, and the depiction of Christ in perpetual agony that once looked up to the heavens now eyes a billboard advertising a local production of Cabaret.

“Looks like we’re backtracking,” Deatherage says in a disappointed tone. He slings his right arm over the passenger backrest to turn his body.

“Wait!” Collins says, laughing. “Look at JC. He’s totally looking up that chick’s skirt.”

The four remaining soldiers look again. The angle of the visage gives the illusion that the messiah is peering up the female performer’s already short costume. Collins pulls out his cell phone. “I’ve gotta get a pic of this.”

“Hurry up,” Deatherage says impatiently.

The soldier’s phone makes an unconvincing shutter sound with every click of the button. Deatherage looks past the photographer, his eyes drawn to the opening of the church’s front door. A priest holding a shotgun emerges. The man of God is trying to flag down the men in the car, and his black robes billow as he runs to the wagon holding his weapon across his hips like a commando. Collins, having snapped enough pics of the savior, rolls down his window to hear what the man of the cloth is screaming. The soldier also wants to capture an image of this guy that to him seems to be surreal. Between this and his leering Jesus stills he knows he’ll be a Facebook legend should the world ever recover.

“The day of judgment is at hand,” the cleric announces before pivoting and firing into the window.

Deatherage is showered with remnants of his companion. He must squint through a skull fragment in his right eye to find reverse. He turns around fast. Glass rains down upon Dustin, blown in by buckshot.

“All must fall if he is to return,” the crazed priest shouts.

The car refuses to speed up as it travels. It’s listing to the left, having lost a tire. Deatherage ducks below the backrest as another shot takes away his side mirror. “Chachi! Take him out!”

Dustin hears another burst from their assailant. The tilting car levels out when the right rear tire is obliterated, and the long backend of the wagon drags its bumper along the asphalt, creating sparks. The front wheels are having trouble pulling them; they are practically dead in the water.

Dustin pops up over the fifth door to take his shot. He feels no need to adhere to the headshot only rule; he just wants to stop the zealot from firing again. He also disregards the ‘no rock and roll’ clause, releasing three rounds in rapid succession to silence the sermon.

The station wagon’s front wheels are smoking and squealing in protest of the demands being made on them. Deatherage must give up. He picks through his friend’s corpse for supplies, taking ammo and grenades. The leader has so many emotions he doesn’t know what to feel, so he chooses to let frustration fuel his decision to strike onward from here on foot. “Call command. Tell them we need a pick-up.”

In the commotion, Dustin has lost sight of the radio, and he frantically searches for the device in the way back of the wagon. He’s anxious about their static position and fighting the shock of what has transpired. He locates the handset and quickly depresses the button. Speaking rapidly he says, “Command! Come in, command!”

He waits but hears nothing. He attempts to use the proper protocol, “Over.”

Deatherage slammed his door and now stands on the street with his hands clasped on top of his head. Down the intersecting passages, he can see the dead approaching.

“The radio is fucked,” Dustin says from inside the vehicle. “Maybe the battery is dead.”

“A lot of that going around,” Deatherage mutters. “Grab all you can carry. We’re walking.”

“All the way back?” Ryan asks in alarm.

“If we have to.”

A warm breeze reminds the three men that the dead will be faster here than they were near the base, and several of them are already congregating at the fallen cross. The zombies are having trouble finding a way to the morsels that taunt them, they reach over the wooden statue rather than explore for a way around the obstruction. The stranded men know they can’t go that way.

The team leader turns away from the corpses. “Let’s try to find a new battery before we risk humping home.”

A scan of the streets reveals a clear path to the business district. Deatherage turns the wagon’s radio way up. He hates leaving his comrade’s body behind but he knows carting the corpse will just get them killed. Between the drone of the radio and the smell of the man’s blood, the dead will be lured here rather than where he plans to lead the few remaining guys depending on him.

20

The enduring members of Team Alpha cautiously make their way through the stores and specialty shops. They stay low to avoid detection. An electronics store is their best bet. Like many of the businesses, it was not opened yesterday. A steel shutter blocks their entry; the storefront window is protected by bars.

“Now what do we do?” Ryan whispers.

“Get back,” Deatherage says, taking a grenade from his gear. The distraction he had setup will be ruined after this, but he feels desperate.

His men are huddled in an alley when Deatherage comes rushing in to join them, making it around the corner just in time. He hollers over the ringing in his ears, “We’ll have to be quick!”

The men have to lift the twisted steel barrier to enter the devastated glass door. In the darkness, they need to split up to locate four ‘C’ cell batteries. Dustin sticks close to the light entering from the front window. The glass is cracked from the explosion but the brightness makes him feel safe in the dark shop. Just yesterday, he encountered living souls running around this very city. As far as he knows they’re all dead, and today they’ve found only one survivor who didn’t fare much better. Half of his team is gone now, and the world seems truly lost.

He visually explores the shadows, expecting lumbering, hungry zombies to emerge. But he sees nothing. The light filtering in illuminates the check-out area, and he knows most places keep batteries by the cash registers for the impulsive shoppers.

A large display of various batteries stands just beyond the aisles in the darkness. He tentatively takes small steps towards them; his feet barely leave the smooth flooring.

Dustin stays in the pale pool of sun, leaning to see the obscured packages. He snatches a four-pack the second he spots the correct size. “I got ‘em!”

Dustin is in a haste to get away from the unknown, so he turns away quickly but not quickly enough. His arm is seized by an ice cold claw. The accoster moans, pulling on him greedily. A panic induced shriek escapes him and he struggles to get away. His efforts to free his arm succeed, but also land him roughly on the linoleum. The dead man is on top of him.

Dustin puts his forearms instinctively between him and the hungry mouth trying to get close to his body. He has to be mindful of where his hands are. The zombie wants meat and fingers will do. The feel of the corpse’s lips grazing his digits makes him scream out for help.

Ryan arrives first. The fellow civilian pulls the ghoul away by its shoulders. The insatiable creature complies with ease, seeing another viable meal. It simply sets his eyes on the new menu item and wraps his arms around him instead. Now Ryan is on the floor under the zombie, before the prey feels the teeth he notices Dustin is gone.

Deatherage is charging out of the black void. In his rush, he slams into shelves and trips over the fallen boxes. He spots Dustin leaving the threshold. “What’s up?”

“Ryan got bit. Let’s go!”

The man in question is still alive, on the ground screaming in pain as he’s eaten. Deatherage won’t let Ryan end this way if he can help it. He nears the horrendous scene, and the agonized bellows turn his stomach, making him cringe in sympathy. Two shots are fired; one to silence the civilian, the other to still the beast that has robbed him of yet another man.

Dustin still stands in the door frame, hesitant to leave. The dead are approaching the store from every angle. He doesn’t want to go out there alone.

“We need to find a place to lay low. Call for a ride,” Deatherage says. His voice sounds miles away and his eyes are haunted. He was told the job would be easy; this has been far from it.

The deceased must have found a way to get around the fallen prophet, and the street they had come down is now clogged with them. But Deatherage has an idea. “Take out the closest ones.”

The two surviving men drop the corpses in their immediate vicinity. Dustin follows his leader into an alley where he is told to hide behind a dumpster. He watches the soldier line several empty beer bottles along the mouth of the passage before joining him.

“This is your plan?” Dustin asks.

“For now,” he whispers without further explaining himself. He hopes the dead that are farther back haven’t seen where they have ducked. The empties should give them a few seconds of warning should one of them enter the opening. But he doubts himself and mutters, “Big mistake.”

“What’s a mistake?”Dustin asks.

Deatherage silently removes the old batteries from the radio and inserts fresh ones. He peeks around the receptacle before whispering, “Joining the guard. I’m a fulltime student. Business school. I just signed up for another bullet on my resume. To show I have dedication and leadership skills… Look how well I lead.”

The sound of numerous zombies passing the alley silences the pair, and it freezes them with fear. Neither dares make a move, they hardly breathe. The petrified men can only listen to the shuffling feet and mournful moans, hoping not to hear the bottles rattle.

The procession continues down the road, being allowed a lengthy lead before the downtrodden soldier attempts to use the radio. Still nothing. The handset is placed in the trash. “Two pounds of uselessness that will just slow us down.”

“There’s no way to get a hold of them?”

“Smoke signals,” Deatherage answers. “I have smoke canisters to use as a beacon. It’s our only hope, if we can find a high flat place for a chopper to land.”

“How about the Hammond Grand?” Dustin offers.

“That place is huge. It’ll be a slaughter house.” Deatherage shakes his head.

“They should all be locked in their rooms,” Dustin says, knowing that the man whose car he had stolen and his daughter had survived. “And the top five floors are closed off for fumigation.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“I met the guy in charge of spraying it.”

“How do we get there from here?”

Dustin has to get his bearings before answering, “Three or four blocks east of us.”

“Lead the way.”

##

The two men move swiftly along the streets, keeping an eye out for dangers and avoiding obstacles that may shroud a potential threat. A mob of the dead follows them faithfully.

Cluttered roads force them to share the sidewalk with scattered corpses that need to be put down for them to advance. Dustin’s rifle runs dry on him and he can’t remember how to load it. The sense of vulnerability causes him to panic.

“Calm down, Chachi!” Deatherage commands, handing him Collin’s rifle. “Sling yours for now.”

The street in front of Olive Grove Hospital is chaos, but this charred and twisted wreckage is a shadow compared to the explosions Dustin had seen yesterday.

“What’s the game plan once we get to the hotel?” Deatherage asks.

“There’s a revolving door. We go in and jam it.”

The dead fall from balconies above them. Yesterday’s explosions had shattered the windows of the surrounding buildings.

Dustin and Deatherage charge into the dark lobby, and Dustin heads straight to the fountain, where he remembers large couches are located. Deatherage helps him shove one of the plush seats into the door’s swing zone. The dead enter through the narrow gaps and become trapped in the wedge shaped spaces.

“They still might bust through,” Deatherage points out.

“By then we’ll be upstairs.”

Wading into the dim reception area, Dustin leads his companion. “To the right of the desk will be a dining area, and we need to go through the kitchen to get to the stairs.”

“You’ve been here before I take it.”

“Once,” Dustin says in a low voice, but he’d rather not go into details over his experience. “We may see some zombies on our way.”

Deatherage’s L-shaped flashlight reveals the battered bodies of cooks in the breakfast nook; the stainless steel is splattered with blood.

Dustin’s confidence abandons him at this point. This is as far as he had gone yesterday. He cautiously pushes the swinging door open with his foot. The space beyond the portal is almost a solid wall of black, and he is relieved when his partner advances in first with his light.

Dustin sticks close to the solider, scared beyond embarrassment as he keeps a hand firmly clamped upon his leader’s shoulder. Passing grills and broilers, dishwashing stations and a preparation table, the men move like conjoined twins, or the Scooby gang on a case. They’ve reached the end of the service area, and now they must choose between continuing forward or heading down an intersecting and equally dark hall.

Deatherage whispers, “Which way?”

“Straight,” Dustin says, though he hasn’t a clue. He can’t remember if the man he met yesterday had mentioned the route exactly. The last thing he wants is to look incompetent, and this come second to his worry about dying here in the gloom.

Deatherage is too nice, or too afraid to complain, because he doesn’t tell him to stop stepping on his heels. Dustin keeps so close he can’t help but walk on the leader’s feet. The proximity causes him to plow into his friend when the man stops abruptly.

“Here’s a staircase,” Deatherage says, ignoring the invasion of personal space. “Says: employees only and it has roof access.”

21

By the ninth floor, Dustin’s legs are burning. He begins lagging behind Deatherage, who isn’t even winded. At the halfway point, they rest mostly for his benefit.

“You said I should start a band,” Deatherage makes conversation. “You got one?”

“The Dogs of War. With a name like yours, you’d fit right in.” Dustin sits upon the stairs. “We actually have--had--a gig coming up in Fallen…”

“Shh.” Deatherage shushes hears something. He strains to detect an echoing whimper accompanied by a voice weakly calling for help.

The sound comes from above them; it seems to be emanating from a vent well out of reach.

“Maybe it’s a service elevator,” he says, before bolting up the stairs to the next floor.

Dustin groans as he rises on his shaky legs, then he follows his partner up to a door. They enter halls that were once solely used by workers who would deliver room service and linens. Deatherage travels along the left wall, shining his light in exploration. He locates a steel door of an elevator that he must use his combat knife to pry open. Sounds from the depths of the dark chasm indicate that they have survivors to rescue.

The soldier tightens the strap of his rifle and asks for Dustin’s hand. Dustin complies without protest, until his friend reaches into the void for the cables. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“We’re supposed to pull out survivors if we can,” Deatherage says, clinging to the steel cables, tightly squeezing them between his ankles. He reaches for a ladder against the back of the shaft, and the move puts even more weight on his legs. “I’ll yell up what floor it’s trapped at. I need you to run down to that floor.”

“By myself?” Dustin asks, his voice trembling with fear.

“You said the dead should be locked in their rooms, right? You’ll be fine.”

The stiff soles of Deatherage’s combat boots clank on the rungs of the ladder, and each echoing clang takes him farther away from Dustin, who is on pins and needles. Dustin quakes with anxiety as he waits. Paranoia has him looking over his shoulders for fear of unseen hands in the shadows. He can feel the entombed zombies, like when he spots a roach in his apartment. That creepy crawling sensation spurned by the knowledge of so many thriving within the walls.

“Chachi! Seventh floor!” Deatherage’s words startled him.

Dustin descends, taking the steps two at a time, but he slows once he gets to the door. It takes him three attempts before he can lay his timid hand upon the handle. It takes several preparatory breaths and a burst of will to turn it.

Another dark hall, and Dustin takes baby steps through thick shadows he swears he can feel. Muffled moans in the air knot his stomach. He knocks upon the elevator door to alert his partner that he has arrived. The blade of Deatherage’s knife emerges through the crack at the bottom of the sealed shutters, and it twists to widen the gap.

“Use your fingers,” the soldier instructs.

Dustin pries the portal open with his hands, but they won’t remain open when he lets up pressure. So he uses one of his rifles as a brace. The lift is between floors, leaving hardly two feet of clearance between where he stands and the roof of the cabin.

“Chachi, how are you with kids?” Deatherage asks him.

“Huh?”

“I told you the wrong floor, but we’ll make the most of it. I’m going to hand you a baby. His mom and I will be dropping down to the sixth floor. We’ll meet you on the stairs.”

A very ripe smelling child is carefully handed to Dustin. The baby begins to cry almost instantly, filling the rescuer with a new kind of dread. Never before has he ever held a baby.

The child’s mom and the soldier are discussing their game plan, but Dustin only catches the gist. Deatherage says he will drop first to secure the area before the woman joins him.

The wailing sixteen pound baby tenses and squirms in Dustin’s arms. He tries to rock and lull the tyke to no avail. The uncontrollable howling covers the sound of feet shuffling towards him over the matted industrial carpeting. But as Dustin heads to the much anticipated rendezvous, he hears a moan between the cries.

Three slack faces appear in his flashlight beam, and men in coveralls with pictures of dead roaches on their chests bar the exit. Dustin struggles to maneuver the wiggling bundle to one arm so he can grab his rifle from his shoulder. He backs away, aiming at the closest of the ghouls, but the rifle is empty.

He hasn’t the time to yank his other weapon from the elevator, and he still can’t remember how to load. Doing so would also mean setting down the smelly, noisy child that undoubtedly is only drawing the zombies to them. He needs to buy time so he can get away. The beam of light he holds locates more figures in the gloom, zeroing in on him. Dustin needs a plan, and while looking down at the innocent tear soaked face he comes up with one.

##

Deatherage deems the corridor safe, so he reaches up to help the woman down. The fretful mother is worried about her child on the floor above them. It had been crying horribly since leaving her arms, now it’s silent. “I can hear those things.”

The two enter the staircase, and Deatherage literally has to race the woman to reach the door first. The woman is desperate to get to her child. They enter and see the dead by the elevator, huddled over a small bundle in a glowing pool from Dustin’s flashlight. Dustin is nowhere in sight.

The mom gasps, rushing forward. “My baby!”

“Wait!” Deatherage yells, unable to grab her.

He must take the zombies out before the woman makes it to the scene. So he fires carefully around her as the dead rise to their feet.

The mother is oblivious to the fallen corpses around the swaddled mess. She snatches up the blanket that unravels, dropping a wet object onto the floor with a splat--just a poop-filled diaper. “Where’s Jeremy?”

“So that’s his name.” Dustin emerges from a supply closet. “Well, Jeremy got shit all over me.”

He hands over the now sleeping tyke to the mom’s eager hands, wiping smears of feces from his arms afterwards.

“How?” the leader asks puzzled.

“I must be better with kids than I thought. He fell asleep as soon as his diaper fell off. Tuckered out I guess,” Dustin explains. “Luckily the supply closet was unlocked.”

22

The woman is one of the hotel’s maids who were scheduled to come in early to remove the food from the rooms before extermination. Her babysitter had fallen through and she was forced to bring Jeremy to work. Her name is Erica.

They reach the top floors, where Erica and her child are placed in a penthouse so the boy can be fed. The honor bars hadn’t been cleared, so the three adults raid the small fridge for sustenance.

On the roof, Deatherage sets off a plume of green smoke to signal command. They watch the amorphous spire rise into the air. “It should be about 10-15 minutes.”

Dustin walks to the edge and spits off. “They say, at this height, a gob can dent the roof of a car. I wonder what it would do to a zombie?”

Deatherage joins him, pulling out a pair of binoculars. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Another loogie falls, missing a car but hitting a zombie on the head. The dead man is staggered but doesn’t fall. He just looks around puzzled. The ghouls are still crowding the entrance like fish in a barrel.

“Still on his feet,” Deatherage says. “Let me show you how it’s done. You need more volume. A denser wad.” He snorts loudly, working a massive amount of thick mucus out of his sinuses. They lay along the gravel roof with their heads hanging over the side, and Dustin watches the payload fall. It hits his mark, sprawling out an undead woman. Her limbs flail, tripping others around her.

“Dropped one! But she’s still twitching,” Dustin says. “My turn.”

He hands off the specs and removes a three dollar soda from one of his cargo pockets. He shakes the can vigorously before releasing it over the side. “Bombs away.”

The pressurized beverage rebounds off of a zombie’s head and spins in the air, propelled by a spray of sticky cola. The victim falls before the aluminum canister ruptures in a haze.

“That was awesome!” Deatherage reports. “But I have it beat.”

He rushes off, returning with two red fire extinguishers.

The sight of the devices makes Dustin laugh. “Oh shit!”

The safety apparatuses plummet, and two concentric waves of foam expand upon landing on the hard surface below. The walking dead around ground zero are thrown aside by the released force.

“Nicely played, sir.” Dustin hands off the field glasses. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

##

Jeremy is nestled on a pillow, napping while Erica paces the luxurious room, unable to enjoy the extravagance of it. She excitedly greets the kid who enters. “Is it time?”

“Not yet, ma’am,” he answers. “I’m just seeing if you two are ok.”

“We’re fine,” she says dejectedly.

“Are you using this?” Dustin points to the microwave in the small kitchenette area of the room.

“Well… No, the power is out.”

“We just need to borrow it for a minute,” Dustin unplugs the unit and wraps the cord around it.

“You need a microwave on the roof?” Erica asks puzzled.

“Yeah, it’s complicated… Official Army type shit. Highly classified.”

##

Through their game of ‘bombard the dead’ the boys wonder how original it truly is. They speculate if there are others out there who are surrounded by zombies that they can take their frustrations out on. The fun of the distraction wore thin soon after the microwave landed upon the head of a corpse, door first, encapsulating the ghoul’s cranium. Now they silently watch the sky in the direction of the depot.

“So, I guess when we get back you’ll be re-joining the civilians,” Deatherage says.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I couldn’t blame you if you did. I think I would if I had the choice.”

The wait has been longer than the fifteen minutes Deatherage had predicted, much longer. Dustin can’t believe they haven’t spotted a helicopter yet. “Perhaps we should pop another smoke bomb.”

“The only other one I have is red. That’s our signal to tell them to leave us behind.”

Both of the men have a flash of fear that they have been left for dead.

Erica surprises them out of the thought when she appears behind them. “Are they here yet? It’s been nearly an hour.”

“They should have been here by now,” Deatherage concedes. “We should get moving before it gets too dark.”

“We have no way of getting there,” Dustin points out.

“There’s a parking garage under the place, right? They have a valet. They have to store the keys somewhere until needed.”

“If we’re going out there, you have to show me again how to load this damn thing.” Dustin holds up his M-16.

23

The employee stairs lead all the way down to the sublevels. Expensive luxury cars sit in extra roomy spaces to avoid the accidental marring of their finishes. Deatherage enters a small office and locates a cabinet full of keys. People would have the desk call down to the valets, who would then bring their cars up. Whoever was on duty at the time of the outbreak is long gone. So he snags the keys to a Hummer.

The wide vehicle rolls up the ramps to street level, and only a steel shutter stands between them and the city of the dead. Deatherage parks, keeping plenty of room between them and the barrier. Erica told him that the valets have special remotes to open the gate, but the soldier has his own means.

He plucks a grenade from his gear as he exits the high driver’s seat. Several dead citizens stand outside the shutter, watching the meals about to be delivered. They won’t be standing long.

Deatherage is about to pull the pin when Dustin stops his hand. “Wait! Can I do it?”

“Really?”

“I’ve always wanted to use one.”

“I don’t know.” Deatherage shakes his head. “The first time can be kinda scary.”

“Please?” Dustin pleads.

“Fine. But, you have to do exactly what I say.” He hands the kid the explosive sphere so he can give him a quick lesson. “This is the pin. This is the spoon. You need to squeeze the spoon before you pull the pin, so it won’t detonate until you release it.”

The ‘spoon’ is a long metal handle that extends down from the device’s top. Dustin’s chest tingles with excitement as he goes through the procedure of pulling the pin and bringing his hand back to toss the bomb. His right hand has the spoon depressed but he doesn’t throw it, because he’s now too afraid to follow through. The handle he holds against the round shell doesn’t feel like it has much give, and he is hyperventilating out of fear that he isn’t squeezing it right. His throwing arm trembles.

“Am I squeezing it?” he asks in a panic. “It doesn’t feel like I’m squeezing it!”

“It hasn’t gone off, has it?” Deatherage says calmly as he waits for Dustin to hurl the grenade. “Just don’t pump it.”

“Why?” Dustin’s eyes are wide. “Am I pumping it?”

“The fuse will start. Just lob it at the gate so we can go home.”

“Maybe you should do this.”

“You’ve already pulled the pin. Just do it.”

Dustin faces his target, about to ask ‘what if it rolls back,’ but Deatherage is getting frustrated and tries to motivate him. “C’mon! Hot potato!”

The explosive is tossed underhand, and the men rush to the vehicle for cover. The resulting blast takes the rolling shutter off of its tracks and destroys the lock mechanism. The dead that had assembled at the divide are on their backs, and their clothes are smoldering.

The civilian Hummer is far more comfortable than the military variety. Deatherage cruises over the floundering corpses, meeting mild congestion on the street of scorched cars as he drives them back to the base.

The gates of the depot are wide open, and the disorder of refugee cars is gone except for the purple Camaro that is still parked against the high stone walls. The post is deserted.

“I fucking knew it!” Dustin screams in anger and despair. The deeper into the base they travel, the worse he feels. “They fucking left us!”

Corporal Deatherage can’t accept what his eyes clearly reveal. “No. They couldn’t have.”

“You’re surprised? We weren’t exactly the A-team, were we?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What’s your job, Rage?”.

“Supply,” the soldier answers, looking confused.

“And Collins and Jackson?”

“Mess cook and motor pool.”

Dustin exits the vehicle to pout, kicking discarded objects as he goes. Deatherage follows him, leaving Erica and her child onboard.

“So, a mechanic, a cook, and fucking Radar O’Reilly took three punk civies out to be live bait. You don’t find it at all suspicious? We were the expendable ones!” Dustin screams. “I bet the military has a big fancy name for this.”

“Maybe we can catch up with them on the way to the other base,” Deatherage says.

“Fuck the other base!” Dustin screams.

Erica has been watching, and she pokes her head out of the Hummer. “Guys, is everything ok?”

Deatherage glares into Dustin’s eyes and growls, “You lock it up. I need to get them to Eagle Rock. I guess you’re off to Fallen. Good luck with the gig.”

At that, the soldier simply turns his back on Dustin.

“Stop, Rage. I’m going with you. But, we’re taking my car.”

The sole surviving member of the Dogs of War declares his tour to be officially ended; he’ll be heading to the base. He will not be doing so out of honor or duty, he will not be travelling for his country, or the lady and her kid. He will be going to Fort Eagle Rock for one reason, he wants blood.

Section V. If you want blood

1

Dustin guides the car out of the darkened city, while Deatherage slouches in the passenger seat and Erica cradles her sleeping son in the back atop a pile of blankets. The black of the night and the stress of the day has them all feeling exhausted. Dustin leans forward, as if it will allow him to see farther into the abyss his headlights fail to illuminate. His eyes slowly close and his head bows forward. Then he jolts awake once his neck jerks downward.

He would usually blast music to stay alert on the road, but with a sleeping child he hasn’t the option. The heat coming from the vents threatens to lull him back into slumber behind the wheel. He slurs, “Can someone else drive?”

Deatherage stirs from his own fight against sleep. “Just pull over. We’re outta Waterloo. Someplace remote should be safe.”

Dustin pulls off of the road after a few minutes of traveling at a crawl, hoping to see a sign in his high beams. The state fairgrounds should be the perfect place for them; the vast field is only used a few times a year. The Camaro rolls over the uneven plain of dirt. The lights and engine are killed, stranding themselves in the black hole the world has become, so like the lifeless void they feel in their hearts. Hopelessness.

They found virtually everything was taken from the base when it was evacuated: guns, ammo, and food. They will have to make do with what the car’s true owner had packed--dry goods from Eli’s pantry, including crackers and toaster pastries, juice boxes and gummy snacks.

The only item of use salvaged from the abandoned fort is a battery powered heater that Deatherage always takes into the field during training. He finds the luxury of warmth when residing in a tent and sleeping on an uncomfortable cot makes the ordeal almost bearable. The unit is able to put out a surprising amount of heat, but to Dustin the close quarters is insufferably hot.

“Can you turn that thing down?”

“It’s on the lowest,” Deatherage mumbles. “Roll your window down a bit.”

The cold air outside brings Dustin relief from the prickly heat around him. He wants to listen to music. Seldom does he ever fall asleep without tunes. So he searches blindly for one of his many MP3 devices and his ear buds, but an odd sound stills his hand. “Do you hear that?”

The soldier is instantly on alert, hands on his weapon while he listens for what his partner has detected.

“It’s getting closer,” Dustin says. His voice gives away his fear, and his eyes dart to his door to make sure it is locked.

“What is it?”

“It sounds like an ice cream truck.”

At Deatherage’s urging, Dustin accompanies him outside. They follow the sound towards the main road. Clouds that had obscured the moon earlier have parted, making it easier to see a white panel van covered in lights, cruising along the road. The vehicle emits a constant tune that stops after it pull up onto the shoulder several yards away.

Deatherage leads Dustin closer to the anomaly, using the cover of shadows and bushes to shroud their activity. The truck starts to rock slightly, a loud, frustrated grumble drifts to them in the still evening. The driver of the vehicle has gotten out, but they can’t see him though they can hear him pace on the other side. The footsteps sound odd, like a periodic slapping of flip-flops.

The waddling driver rounds the back of the truck, and his appearance gives Dustin a start. He shudders. The man is dressed as a clown, from his bright blue hair to his over-sized shoes. He fumbles with a large map that he tries to keep straight against a slight breeze. The clown puts his back against his ride, using the adorned lights to help him get his bearings.

“I wish it was a zombie,” Dustin whispers to Deatherage. “Clowns creep me out.”

The map being held by the festively dressed man comes down with a sudden crumple. He addresses the night, “You know, I’m getting really sick of hearing that! Nuts like John Wayne Gacy and fucks like Stephen King give all in my profession a bad name. If we’re not cartoon characters, or whoring ourselves to sell burgers, people can’t freaking stand us!”

“Sorry,” Dustin timidly apologizes.

“S’all right.” A gloved hand is held aloft to sign no harm. “Tell me, mysterious shadow voice, how do I get to Fraggle Rock?”

“…Do you mean Eagle Rock?” Deatherage says.

The clown confers with his map. “Yup! No wonder I can’t find the place.”

“We’re heading there in the morning…” Deatherage tells him. He emerges from the gloom after receiving a sharp elbow to the ribs from Dustin. “Would you like to join us?”

“I see…” The clown takes on a serious air, hitching his thumbs into the waistband of his wide and loudly colored pants. “You want someone tough watching your back. A certified bad ass. I’m in.”

The clown is told where they are parked and how to get there. Then Dustin and Deatherage walk back to the Camaro, and Dustin complains through the entire stroll. “I told you he creeps me out. Why did you tell him he could join us?”

His whining is ignored. Obviously Deatherage couldn’t let a fellow survivor go it alone, no matter how creepy he is.

The clown’s van approaches over the dark rutted field like a UFO from space, pulling alongside the car. Instead of exiting the ice cream truck, the clown lifts its side shutter. His tiny brown bowler has been replaced by a white paper hat that sits atop his blue tresses. “What’ll it be, folks? I’m offering everything on the menu at Brock Rottom low prices.”

“Don’t you mean ‘rock bottom?’” Dustin asks.

“No. It’s like the sign,” he replies, pointing above his head.

Letters in the neon sign have gone black. Dustin tries to make it out, but looks at the ice cream man and shrugs. So the clown sticks his head out of his window to see the dead lights. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

A few strikes against the sheet metal makes the sign flicker to life, declaring the van as Brock Rottom’s Traveling Treats.

“Oh, your name is Brock Rottom,” it dawns on Dustin.

“That’s what it says on my diploma from NYUK.”

“Nyuk?” Deatherage asks while perusing the menu on the side of the van

“The New York University of Klowning,” Brock says in a sophisticated tone. “It’s very prestigious. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it.”

“No one’s heard of it,” Dustin says, missing the joke.

“Where did you go to school?” Brock asks, sounding offended. He puffs up his chest as if ready to fight.

“I…I…”

Deatherage laughs, and he pats Dustin on the back to tell him to relax.

“What’ll it be, boys?”

“It’s too cold for ice cream.” Deatherage still ponders the various flavors and novelties.

“I’ve got hot stuff too.” Brock points towards the rear of his ride to a café style chalkboard, but the handwritten items are smeared and nearly illegible thanks to bloody handprints. “Friggin’ zombies.”

Deatherage decides to wake Erica in case she wants something more substantial to eat. She gives a bewildered smile to the clown chef, and mumbles something about wondering if this is a dream.

“I see a lady who wants a foot long wiener,” the clown jokes, handing her an over-sized hotdog.

“Condiments are under the window,” Deatherage tells her.

The survivors wrap themselves in blankets against the cold as they sit on their car eating. The clown tells them he is from Breckinridge, a town south of Waterloo.

“So, you must have been working when this hit?” Erica says.

“Nope. It was my day off.”

The three others look to one another then back to the guy in grease paint. “In my spare time I entertain kids at hospitals. I also do parties and comedy clubs. No kids are allowed at the club shows, it can get a bit raunchy.”

“Have you ever played at the Flag Pole?” Dustin inquires.

“The strip club?” The clown raises a painted-on eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous… The point of preforming is to be noticed. Who the hell would pay attention to me there?”

Dustin feels embarrassed as the others snicker at his expense.

The clown sighs. “I was actually supposed to raise the spirits of some sick kids at Olive Grove Hospital, but… you know… zombies.”

“I have baby wipes if you want to take your make-up off,” Erica offers.

“Oh, no thanks. I never take it off.”

“Won’t that stuff clog your pores?”

“That’s the beauty of it. If it does break me out, no one will notice.” The clown laughs, but the others don’t. “I was a troubled teen. I was using every drug I could get my hands on. Even things that aren’t technically drugs. I once huffed gasoline until it was no longer flammable. It was all self-medication because I was horribly depressed. After my third suicide attempt my folks were at the end of their rope, so they sent me to this camp up north. The Foundation is a place for teens to rehabilitate and learn better coping skills.”

“I’ve heard about that place,” Dustin pipes up. His own parents had threatened to send him there a few times.

“It’s a great program.” Though a smile is painted on his lips and cheeks, Brock wears a serious expression under the thick make-up. “One step in our recovery was to perform at a children’s fair. They invited schools from all over the tri-state area to come and be entertained by us, and sick kids from the hospitals. I chose to do a face painting booth, because I figured it would be the easiest possible thing I could do to fulfill the requirement. To do it right I decided to look the part and painted my own face.

“It was like I was transformed into the kind of person I always wanted to be. I was funny and outgoing, people loved me. Best of all I was happy. The grease paint was better than Prozac… I haven’t gone a day without it since. I overcame multiple chemical addictions only to become hooked on clowning.”

“No patch for that I bet,” Deatherage says.

“Nor would I want one.” Brock Rottom says, sounding like his more jovial self. “I owe everything to the Foundation. So I work hard to pay back my debt to the world by sending donations to them. That’s all the place asks of those they help. Send what you can spare, if you have anything to spare. The counselors saw how well I was doing with the make-up on, and they sent a request to the chairman of the charity to pay my tuition to the university.”

“That’s a great story.” Erica smiles.

“What’s really great is that my truck is entirely paid for. Most of my transactions are cash, so I only declare what I have to. As far as the IRS is concerned, I’m below the poverty line. I have a lot to send to the Foundation and I still make a killing. When life gives you government cheese, make nachos.” Brock crunches a tortilla chip for affectation.

2

Sore muscles and stiff necks wake up Deatherage and the others. He groans as he pulls his rigid frame from the car and out into the surprisingly warm morning. The brightly colored clown greets him, and he squints his eyes as he speaks. “Brock, tell me you have coffee on your truck.”

“Nope,” the clown says. “But, I have plenty inside of it. Along with many breakfast choices and pastries. How does a sausage biscuit sound?”

“Great!” The soldier straightens his aching back. “How do you have such a wide selection in that little van?”

“I’m a clown. We have a knack for packing as much as we can into a vehicle.”

Everyone enjoys a quick breakfast before heading out as a small caravan. They hope to arrive at the base by late afternoon, barring any problems. The two vehicles head north, sticking to rural roads and avoiding heavily congested areas. Deatherage pilots the lead car as fast as his spotter declares an area safe. Dustin peers down the road before them through a set of field glasses.

“Slow it down,” Dustin says suddenly.

“What is it?” Deatherage taps the brakes to warn Brock of the deceleration.

“There’s a line of cars parked on the side of the road,” Dustin says. They’ve seen many abandoned vehicles, but this is different. The train is organized, evenly spaced, and pointed in their direction.

The two cars halt as a precaution. Deatherage hates stopping since they are so close to their goal--less than an hour by his estimation. It certainly looks like a convoy, he thinks as he surveys the scene. “There are people sitting on the road. Actually, they seem to be kneeling. Three people in orange vests are pacing…”

The lead vehicle is a large black pick-up that is angled across the lane. The men have rifles. Brock Rottom has joined the soldier, staring at the situation through an obscenely large pair of binoculars. He speaks Deatherage’s exact thoughts, “This doesn’t look good.”

Brock’s view of the events unfolding are far superior to Deatherage’s, and the clown delivers great details. Bullet holes pepper the sides of the middle vehicles, and these cars are filled with frightened faces. The smallest of the three thugs holding these people captive slings his rifle so he can comb his thick black hair. The other two fellows are morbidly obese.

The clown tenses with anger, and he watches as the preening man grabs a woman by her arm and drags her away from the others. The distance makes her screams of protest sound small as the evil man forces her to join him on the other side of the black truck. The man’s shouts are incoherent growls, but Brock and Deatherage soon realize these are commands as the woman reluctantly returns to her knees while the man unzips his fly.

“There’s kids down there,” Brock says, then he rushes to his lunch wagon before becoming a colorful blur heading towards the horrible scenario. He’s now carrying a unicycle that he grabbed from a rack on the back of his truck.

The woman at the villain’s mercy refuses to go through with his demands, and she grimaces as his hands grope and explore her beneath her white tank top. The lady’s eyes slip away from the offensive object she is being threatened and she turns her head toward Brock. Her puzzled expression draws the rapist’s attention as well.

Brock balances on his unicycle, juggling pins and heading straight for the villain.

He hurls the pins with such great velocity the first one dents the truck’s door. The second and third projectiles strike the villain in his throat and exposed groin, dropping him to the ground. But the clown doesn’t stop. Instead he allows himself to fall and slide under the high truck, while the unicycle skitters along the asphalt making sparks.

Another of the large men drops his gun and hides behind the other as he shrieks, “Clown! Clown!”

Before the man’s human shield can raise his weapon, Brock rolls on his side, fishing a black revolver out of his fake potbelly. “Let me guess, he’s afraid of clowns, right? Thinks we’re creepy? Follow his example and drop your rifle.”

Brock remains lying on the ground with his pistol trained on the men in hunting vests, and he keeps this casual pose until he hears the vehicles of his party approach.

“Jesus, Brock!” Deatherage exclaims. “We didn’t know you were armed.”

“Well, a clown can’t be too careful these days.” He relaxes his gun so he can stand, since his friends have the assailants in their sights.

“Thank you! That was incredible.” The woman in the white tank top walks up to the clown and kisses his heavily made up cheek. “It’s more than my husband was going to do for me.”

“Aw, Gloria!” a man among the released captives groans. “What could I do?”

“It was nothing, really,” Brock says nervously, not wanting to fuel the domestic squabble. “You don’t major in unicycling at a place like NYUK for nothing.”

“You went to the clown school in New York?” she asks.

“Yes I did!” Brock smiles smugly at Dustin.

Introductions are made as the three ‘hunters’ lay on their chests on the road, and their hands and ankles lashed with donated shoelaces.

Dustin, who was presented to the grateful band as Chachi, sees a pretty girl among them that catches his eye. She’s about his age and looks familiar. He wants to ask her where she goes to school, because she is wearing a tee-shirt under her thin hoodie that is from a haunted house attraction near Waterloo, but all the vehicles in the train that make up the caravan have out of state plates. The girl is Latino and well out of his league, but he hopes his affiliation with the heroic team will help his cause in chatting her up.

While Brock prepares a feast for the travelers, Dustin runs his fingers through his black hair and wishes he had a mirror. He strides confidently towards the girl who stands with a grey-haired gentleman and Deatherage. His friend is telling the pair of Waterloo when Dustin joins them. He nods along with Deatherage’s story, but isn’t listening. He is preoccupied and wondering if his buddy has already set his sights on the girl, not that that would stop him. Just as he’s about to pipe in with his own twist on things, Brock tells the group that the food is ready, and he misses his window.

The caravan of civilians has declined to accompany the smaller group to the base in favor of resuming their trek south. The older gentleman that spoke to Deatherage has property down there, but they happily take advantage of what the clown has to offer in the way of provisions. The proud entertainer makes balloon animals for the children and makes sure to send them on their way with plenty of treats. The travelers also receive some of the rifles the other men used to assault them, taking almost all of the weapons from the racks in their trucks.

The black pick-up and a much smaller red one had appeared out of nowhere and just opened fire upon the travelers. The savages muscled them to stop. They had no choice but to surrender, having little means of self-defense.

After a generous head start is afforded to the travelers, the thugs are dealt with. Deatherage and the others have decided that they can’t take them into custody or execute them, because they aren’t the police. They also realize that they must release them with a few weapons; to do otherwise is a death sentence. They have no guarantee these men won’t attack others, only their word that they won’t after some parting words from Brock, “Should you continue your wicked ways, the next person to get the better of you may not be as lenient.”

Finally the team is ready to saddle up and resume the last bit of their journey. However Deatherage can’t help but see the forlorn look in Dustin’s eyes. “Cheer up, Chachi. You’ll meet a nice girl one day. And may God have mercy on her soul.”

3

The group arrives at Fort Eagle Rock and is immediately separated; the men are ushered to one side of a large tent, while Erica and her baby are brought to the other. An olive drab sheet separates the space for privacy, and Dustin finds himself once again told to strip down for an exam.

During the humiliation, they are asked intake questions by a soldier with a clipboard. “Sir, we need you to provide your real name.”

“It is my real name,” Brock Rottom insists. “I had it legally changed years ago.”

The census taker moves down the line, stopping in front of Dustin. “Name?”

Before he can draw breath to answer, he is interrupted by a coarse voice that makes every muscle in his body clench. “Chachi!”

His reddening face doesn’t deter the old Quincy from continuing, “I am surprised as fuck and pleased as punch to see you made it.”

The abrasive man exits the tent, leaving Dustin vibrating with anger as well as shame. The nearly naked clown standing beside him chuckles slightly. “That’s gotta be embarrassing.”

Dustin is fuming, and his vow of vengeance is reinforced within him. All he needs now is a plan.

4

Dustin surprised everyone, none more than himself, with his dedication. During the cold winter months he spent as a soldier, he took more patrols than anyone and eagerly jumped upon tasks that most shied away from. Now as spring approaches he has been assigned to the duty he has been striving for--the mess mall. Kitchen patrol isn’t the most glamorous job in the military; the work is hard and the hours are long, but it’s been his goal since he first declared himself a soldier the very day he arrived.

Deatherage earned his pick of assignments for having not only survived the city, but also shepherding four survivors to the base. He’s in the Armory. Erica and her son Jeremy integrated with the other families in the civilian sector, while Brock Rottom has become a one-man USO.

Wearing a paper hat and an apron stained by countless meals, Dustin retrieves stacks of trays from diners who have finished their food. He sprays the compartmentalized serving ware with a high-pressure hose before sending them down the line. His gloved hands quickly sort the silverware into green baskets so they can be doused off as they are sent along the stainless steel counter.

“Thanks, Chachi,” a sweet voice says from the other side of the window, where he receives the dirty trays. He recognizes it as belonging to a beautiful soldier girl named Steele. Everyone calls her Rash.

“It’s Dustin, actually,” he says, leaning down to offer her a smile.

“I’m sorry.” She sounds slightly embarrassed. “I’ve heard folks call you Chachi.”

“It’s an unfortunate nickname,” he sheepishly explains. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the Kelly Peel concert with me tonight?”

Before she can answer, a tray is tossed carelessly on top of the stack, splashing Dustin with wet leftovers. Baked beans stick to his face.

“Zee!” a glowering Rash scolds her friend, who stands close to her. “Actually, Dustin, I already have plans.”

“Another time?” he calls hopefully.

“Not likely,” Zee growls.

Dustin watches them depart. He has heard rumors that the two are an item, but he has also heard to the contrary. He figured he’d give it a shot anyway.

“Zee, why do you have to be so mean?” she asks him. “He’s cute.”

“He’s a punk douchebag.”

“They are always the cutest.”

Dustin can’t wallow in his rejection, not only since he has been shot down by every female on the base from soldier to survivor, but because his true obsession is in the chow line. He spots Master Sergeant Quincy, and this is what he’s been waiting for. It’s time.

The soaked apron is tossed down before he dashes to the serving area, stopping at the beverage fountain to implement the key component of his plan. The boy has studied his prey’s habits well.

“Hey, Chance,” Dustin greets his fellow kitchen worker as he moves behind the long steam table of items and slips into a fresh apron. He hopes the items bulging in his pants pockets aren’t noticed by the soldiers on the other side of the sneeze guard. “Why don’t you sneak out for a smoke? I got the line.”

“Really? You don’t mind?” the renowned chain-smoking private asks.

“Not at all. The scullery is all caught up. When you get back, I’ll go on break.”

“All right!” Chance smiles broadly on his way out.

Dustin happily scoops food out for his patrons, and each satisfied diner brings him closer to his target. He casts glances periodically at Quincy over the transparent barrier, trying not to look too suspicious.

“Chachi!” Quincy says with the usual vigor. “I’ve been hearing great things about you… Why are you behind the counter? Weren’t you just over in the deep sink getting cock-blocked by Sergeant Lynton?”

“I was at that,” Dustin says with a smile.

“I don’t want to get caught up in any schoolgirl gossiping, but I hear they’re together.”

“I’ve heard that too. It never hurts to try. What’ll it be?”

“Chili mac. Tatters. Mixed veg.” The terse list is filled, then Quincy snags a few dinner rolls from the end of the line before heading to the soft-drink dispensers.

Dustin watches the man draw his preferred drink from all the available choices, ignoring the chain of frustrated folks who clamor for food.

“SHH!” he tells the amassing throng of hungry people. He absently acquiesces to their demands, slapping their selections onto their trays while keeping his focus on Quincy. “There! Now fuck off.”

As per his routine, Quincy carries his tumbler of cola toward the tables. He takes a sip mid-stride and makes a face. Dustin looks around people standing in his view, because he has to see his plan in action. Despite Quincy’s brass-balled bravado he is very picky; where most people would accept the situation, the Master Sergeant returns to the service line.

“Chachi,” he says. “The soda fountain is all jacked-up, too much syrup in the mix. Can you give this a shot of H2O?”

“Of course,” Dustin says, forgoing the dozens in line to comply with his request by heading to the kitchen.

“Hey, don’t you have a sink right here?”

“Water smelled funny earlier. I have some bottled water in the back.”

“Ooh! Fan-see,” Quincy retorts.

Obscured by a wall, Dustin pours off the top eighth of the drink. He doesn’t add water just yet, but first infuses the soda with a special ingredient--an entire bottle of eye drops. One of his old band mates, Lloyd, told him about this prank. ‘It’ll make someone as sick as a dog’ the bassist had said, ‘He’ll wish he were dead.’

“Here you go, Master Sergeant.” Dustin hands over the cola. “Tell me how it tastes.”

“Perfect! Keep this up and you could be the next Dr. Pepper.”

Once again the line of starved warriors is tended to. Dustin minds his task, trying not to look at the future victim of his wrath, but he has trouble not stealing glances at him. As usual, the man sets himself among a fresh batch of soldiers.

The young enlisted men make room for their idol, looking proud to have him so close. The fools are about to be regaled by war stories and funny tales. On more than one occasion Dustin has heard his name mentioned--his nickname, that is. Similar goofy looking bastards have chuckled at his expense, eyeing him with their faces set in silly grins like this gaggle has now.

The joke’ll be on you in a few minutes, Dustin thinks. You left us without seeing the red smoke. I’ll show you red smoke.

Private Chance returns, accompanied by the crisp smell of spring air and the aroma of cigarettes. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“No problem.” Dustin removes his apron. “The line has gotten a bit out of hand.”

On his way back to the scullery, Dustin hears Quincy imitating a young girl’s voice, “…My daddy calls him Chachi…”

The receiving window has gotten ‘out of hand’ as well, and an uneven stack of trays has toppled to the floor. Impatient people keep stuffing their dishes in. Dustin chuckles at the disorganized scene awaiting him. The floor is slick with refuse, but he isn’t bothered by the mess. He simply sprays the rectangles clean while he leans casually against the steel counter so he can see Quincy’s face as he toils.

“Oh!” the man exclaims, stopping his humorous anecdote. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my chili mac is trying to make an encore.”

The military man rushes from his fans, heading straight for the latrine. Dustin has never been so proud of himself, and he congratulates himself on the victory by removing his heavy dishwasher’s garment for the last time. After delivering the coup de grace, he plans on joining the civies in their leisurely lifestyle. But first he must make that evil man feel what he and Deatherage had felt that day--hopeless, lost, with no escape.

“Chachi!” the sergeant in charge of the mess hall bellows angrily upon entering the scullery. Obviously the disarray is completely unacceptable. “I thought I told you…”

“Eat shit! I don’t answer to you anymore.” He tosses the sopping wet apron against the bewildered man’s chest. “And, don’t call me Chachi!”

Dustin fingers a canister in his right pocket as he heads to the latrine. He drags a yellow placard behind him that tells people to use another restroom while whichever one it stands before is being cleaned. He has no intention of cleaning up the mess he expects to find in there, let alone the mess he intends on making.

Quincy has been in the bathroom for ten minutes by Dustin’s timekeeping, but he bides his time while people flee from the echoing chamber. The sound of retching drives them away. One guy snorts, “Got your work cut out for you. Someone’s puking his guts out in there.”

Once the stampede subsides, the sign is posted to ward off intrusions. Then the spoon along the canister’s side is squeezed, and Dustin pulls the pin and drops the ring in a trashcan between this restroom and the one dedicated to females. He enters the foul smelling space, noticing the sickening groans and splashes have gone quiet.

Dustin knows that there is about a five second delay after the spoon is released to allow the user to clear the landing zone. Then the smoke bomb will go off. I love it when a plan comes together.

The stench wrenches his own stomach, and he forgets every word he had rehearsed in preparation for this day. He breathes through his mouth, filtering the odor of vomit through pursed lips. If not for the visible shoes if his enemy, he’d think he had missed his chance. He wonders if Quincy is taking a break or if he has passed out. He had hoped to hear anguished moans and pleadings with God for leniency.

Inching closer to the partially open stall, he laughs because the man hadn’t had enough time to lock the latch when the urge to purge struck him. The sight of the field weathered face resting upon the stained toilet seat should make him giddy, but his foe’s unmoving frame negates that.

“Oh, no!”

Not even several sharp kicks from his heavy, well-polished boots arouse the Master Sergeant.

“Are you ok?” he asks, reaching down to grab the sick man’s shoulder.

The victim slumps limply to the urine splattered tile. Chunks of his dinner still cling to his chin, and remnants disgrace the bowl and rim. Dustin loses the contents of his own stomach all over the dead man’s perfectly creased fatigues, unable to muster the respect to guide his regurgitation elsewhere.

Killing this guy was never his intention. He merely wanted to knock him down a few pegs. After several ragged breaths of air, he realizes he needs to get out of here. Feeling as if he is walking in a dream, he pushes through the haze fogging his mind, desperate to escape his crime. As he passes through the door, he absently tosses the smoke grenade into the rubbish bin that had also received the pin. Shoving any who stand in his way aside, Dustin heads for the exit, and the short walk now seems to take forever. He doesn’t register Chance’s calls for help contending with the horde of ravenous diners.

The night air eases the murderer’s fluttering stomach, though his pace doesn’t falter. Dustin’s mind reels through a flood of thoughts. I’ve just killed a man, and set off a smoke bomb in a crowded cafeteria… I have to leave the base, get outta here before they come after me… No. I’m fine. If Spinal Tap has taught me anything it’s ‘they can’t dust for vomit’… I need an alibi.

Months of planning ironically didn’t involve an out clause. Dustin scans the grounds for a suitable place to lie low, finding a pillbox building in front of him that will do nicely. Since their arrival on base, the soldier he escaped Waterloo with has been keeping himself busy in the armory. Though they haven’t seen much of each other, he knows Deatherage will vouch for his character and whereabouts.

Muffled chaos erupts behind him in the Mess Hall.

“Hey, look what the wind blew in!” Deatherage smiles from behind the steel mesh of the gun cage, his home away from home.

Dustin locks the door behind him before walking among the tall rows of supplies. He tries to look and sound casual, “Hey, Deatherage. Been awhile.”

“Yeah, I love this place. I’m working on a project right now,” Deatherage explains. “Do you know Sergeants Rash and Lynton?”

“I think so,” Dustin tries to control his breathlessness and racing heart. “Why?”

“In a couple of weeks, when they start going out looking for survivors again, I get to join their team,” he says. “They’ve asked for silenced weapons for when they have to put down a zombie and don’t want to give up their location to the other dead.”

Dead. The word echoes in Dustin’s mind. He’s dead. He’s going to rise. All those people are probably trapped in the hall by the smoke… trapped with him.

“…My grandfather was a gunsmith. He told me all about silencers and how they work. Apparently our base doesn’t keep them on hand, so I had to make my own in the machine shop. Check it out.” Deatherage holds a large revolver out for Dustin to see. His excitement obviously blinds him to Dustin’s inner turmoil, as he explains how his addition uses a series of chambers called baffles to release the gases that issue forth with a bullet once fired. “…like a champagne cork! Tomorrow, I’m taking her to the range to squeeze a few off.”

Dustin is at the pillbox’s only window near the door. Drawn by a rising commotion, he can see folks rushing to the hall. He must hold Deatherage’s attention. “Cool! Can I see it?”

“Sure.” Deatherage hands over the shiny hand cannon. The already long barrel has been extended even farther, and it’s fat on the end. “It’s not loaded. Wanna go to the range with me tomorrow?”

“Will they let me?” Dustin nervously looks around for bullets. “I’m not a soldier anymore. I quit today.”

“Trouble at the Mess Hall?”

“Nothing I want to talk about.” Or, admit to.

The topic is not so easily deflected, and outside people are screaming.

Deatherage swiftly jogs to the window. “Holy shit! It looks like trouble.”

He grabs several rifles from his racks and hustles to the door. Folks are already trying to get in, and they pound and jiggle the locked knob, clamoring for weapons.

“Chachi, grab some ammo!”

Dustin must teach himself how to open the cylinder on the spot. “Don’t go out there!”

“What are you talking about? They need our help! There might be zombies on post!”

Deatherage reaches for the lock. The last thing he sees, in the quickest of flashes, is the contents of his own head against the white door in front of him. He never got to enjoy just how silent his gun is--as quiet as a mouse’s sneeze.

Those wishing entry into the armory have no idea if there are walking dead among them or how many, they simply know that they need weapons just in case. Dustin imagines folks are panicking inside the smoke filled Mess Hall and these people want to get in here, because they sure as hell don’t want to go in unprepared. So they smash the singular window, only to meet their death at Dustin’s hand. He erases every face that enters the small square frame.

He falls to his knees and trembles. Not only did he kill his enemy and only friend, he’s led to the downfall of the entire base. Without access to the weapons, soldiers and civilians alike are about to die.

5

Dustin’s actions were not the only selfish ones that lead to the fall of Fort Eagle Rock.

Randy Russell sat backstage at his ex-wife’s concert, watching her prepare for the show. She had none of the outlandish costumes or make-up, no body paint or back-up dancers. She just had her voice and an acoustic guitar. The singer had been putting on performances for the survivors, singing her songs as they sounded when she first wrote them in her head so many years ago. Randy saw how truly happy she was and it was like a dagger in his heart. Living like a common person, without the mansions and money, without him, she looked happy. Kelly was able to do what she always wanted--deliver her music to folks who appreciated her for her art.

Kelly disregarded him, taking the stage without so much as a word. Feeling lower than usual, Randy had been seeking comfort in whatever drugs he could scrounge, and in any woman that might be too star struck by him to remember her standards.

Randy had always had a rule about cheating: if one must do so, at least make sure the other woman is a step up. That was before he met Kelly and had to amend the law, since he was hard pressed to ever cross paths with a more beautiful girl. The new custom was volume. Since he couldn’t find a 10, he sought out enough women to overshadow Kelly’s ranking. This very night he felt fortunate to have located not only a pair of willing 8s, but also a plastic bag of random pills.

Whether it was the first palm full of pills he took before having his way with the girls, or the second batch he swallowed post coital, it didn’t matter. Randy Russell’s melancholy heart stopped beating. As people listened to Kelly Peel sing, seeking a small slice of normalcy, the dead comedian arose from the afterglow. The nameless conquests had thought that the man was simply ready for another round, until he sunk his teeth into one of them.

Applause drowned out the screams of terror and pain. Randy mauled the naked woman as the third horrified member of the ménage a trois ran out of the room for help. With everyone watching the show, no help was found amid the labyrinth of halls. The star struck young woman ran as bare as the day she entered the world, fearing she may exit it the same way.

6

Dustin waited in solitude long after the gunfire and screaming had stopped and was replaced by moaning. He has no idea how many days he’s been locked within his fortress, but time is irrelevant. Subsisting on MREs for days, possibly weeks, a new sound draws him to the window he has been avoiding. A crash. Dustin hears the distinct noise of metal on metal and the roar of a large engine.

A cautious peek at the outside world he no longer feels apart of reveals a deuce and a half--a M35 6x6 as Deatherage had called it--careening out of the motor pool. The olive truck is heading towards the front gates and the dead are following. This could be my chance if I can grab my car and join them.

Dustin knows his car is behind the garage the survivors have just hastily exited. All civilian transports were put there for storage since the civies weren’t allowed to drive on post.

Armed with the whisper quiet revolver and an assault rifle, he tries to be brave, to boldly race across the asphalt plane, but he can’t do it. The folks making their escape aren’t so hesitant, and he can hear the reports of their guns.

It takes several moments before he feels courageous enough to make a run for it, though he has already missed his chance to join the others. He hasn’t seen a corpse since the ones that followed the fleeing folks. He wonders if they had all pursued the truck off base. Dustin sprints for the motor pool after several preparatory breaths. He aims to grab the Camaro and bring it back to the armory for supplies.

The rockstar purple car is a sight for sore eyes, and an even greater sight are the keys that are still in the ignition. He makes his way back to the armory unfettered, not a dead menace in sight.

As fast as he can, he loads his car with packages of food and rifles, and he tosses crates of grenades and claymores into his trunk. The curved explosive devices scare him upon inspection, and written on them in raised lettering are the words: FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.

Screaming and gunfire from the civilian sector draws his attention and tells him that not all the zombies have departed. Dustin can see folks running beyond the chain-link that divides the base; he can also see the mob of figures on their heels. From this distance they look small, like action figures. He tries to equate them as such as he slides behind the wheel; he has the means to save them, just not the fortitude. So he leaves them behind to fend for themselves, because there’s somewhere he wishes to be. Though his gig has come and gone months ago, he figures it can’t hurt to at least see the venue. What else do I have going on?

##

Dustin drives for what feels like hours before he becomes suspicious. I should have seen a sign for Fallen by now. He slows to read the notices that are offered to him, and one announces a turn for Poland Creek. He remembers that name, just not how he knows it. The next placard reports how many miles to a location he remembers all too well, and it also tells him that he’s heading the wrong way.

“Waterloo! Fuck!”

So he takes the Poland Creek exit; he’s wasted a lot of gas and needs to take a break. The sleepy little town is still as he cautiously fills his tank at Gary’s Gas and Go. The pump gurgles fuel into his car while his gaze darts around, not wanting to be taken by surprise. On the street he sees a line of cars he can’t help but take a second glance at, because they look familiar. A closer inspection allows him to see that their steel hides are peppered with bullet holes; it’s the convoy he and his group helped out on their way from Waterloo. The folks are all gone, and he can’t help but notice one vehicle is missing.

He puts back the nozzle and screws on his gas cap. Dustin wonders if any of the bodies around him belong to the group. Perhaps the remaining members took off in the missing ride. He didn’t have much contact with civilians at Eagle Rock, not enough that he’d remember one of them, except for the girl he had attempted to chat up.

He fights off thoughts of the pretty girl who is probably dead, which only leads to thoughts of the base he had recklessly brought down. Stop it, he commands himself once behind the wheel. He has a lot of ground to cover and knows that he can’t change what has happened.

Dustin cruises out of town, trying to find his way back to the highway. As he’s about to turn onto the main artery, he sees a glorious sight through the dense trees. At the end of a long driveway sits an estate that beckons him. He would have missed it had he not been driving so slowly. It can’t hurt to check it out.

A tall stone wall towers over him where he parks outside of the place’s wrought iron gates. Dustin uses his hands as visors against the glare of the sun above so he can see the home. The palatial abode is the aspiring rock legend’s dream home. It looks like the Playboy mansion. The overgrown lawn aside, he finds the place to be the perfect degree of opulence, and he hasn’t even stepped foot inside yet.

Dustin enters a small booth that juts from the wall. He assumes there once was a person stationed here to admit visitors. Just below the window is a bank of monitors that show him several views of the manor, and he figures out the controls to cycle each screen through even more vantage points. Though it puzzles him that such a secure and secluded place should not be occupied, he sees no one inside. I wonder who used to live here.

7

Prison is hard on everybody, unless you are a man like Benito Sartori, then it can be downright easy. The Italian born successor of the long defunct Sartori crime family, Benito had revitalized the old syndicate and brought it into the modern age. The capo, known to his peers as ‘Papa Bear,’ holds to the old traditions of omerta, honor and respect. His family still dabbles in the old sources of revenue, but rely heavily on technology and cyber-crimes these days. Prostitution brings in money, but not nearly what their internet porn rings and bootleg movies earn them. The family still makes fast cash through robberies and hijackings; however their scammers and hackers are far more lucrative. Despite his crimes and the people he’s had killed, or killed personally, what he had been incarcerated for is inconsequential. He’s actually innocent. He was set up.

While locked away from the world among similarly violent people, Benito had decided to escape. His plan involved the use of a distraction, and he found a patsy to kill for him. The murder turned out to be unnecessary since the guards had disappeared.

“I never took him for the Dahmer type,” Sartori had said when he looked into the cell containing the useless cogs of his scheme. He couldn’t help but feel cheated when he saw the man that was supposed to die was the victor. The pudgy, shorter intended victim, whose name Benito had forgotten, was on top of the other eating him. The cell mates were both covered in blood.

Manny, Benito’s lifelong friend and trusted associate, leaned in close to the bars to see the fallen guy being mauled. The black-haired zombie groaned, making the large enforcer jump away. “Christ! Is he ok?”

“Does he look ok?” Sartori asked sarcastically.

He was angry. The escape plan had been thwarted by an out of date blue print, and they had been forced to exit the duct work they were crawling through. The absence of the guards was their saving grace.

Inmates yelled for the crime boss to help them, they groaned and reached for him and Manny. The larger of the two kept his distance from the vacant eyed prisoners, while Benito just ignored them. He had restored his family to its former glory, made the Sartori name mean something once more, and he was respected and feared. The thirty-year-old capo had no time for those he felt superior to, which included everybody.

“Fuck ‘em.”

“We can’t just walk out, Benny!” Manny sounded nervous as he cringed from the reaching hands and the sight of the prisoners that stared at him. “What about the guards?”

“We haven’t seen a bull in days.” Benito tried to calm his friend’s nerves. Most of the guards became employees of the capo once he entered the facility, but they certainly would never let him escape, since doing so wouldn’t just cost them their jobs. It would also get them locked up in the very prison they were sworn to watch, with the very prisoners they had bullied and abused. Killing Benito in his attempt to escape would make them a hero, and probably earn them the respect of the FBI and protection from reprisal.

At the end of the block, they saw the door was actually propped open with a boot. Beyond the steel sheet was the control room, a small antechamber where the guards maintained their vigil over the jailed. Through the shatterproof window they saw one guard, the first screw sighted in days, pacing the tiny room with his head slung low as if lost in thought.

Manny followed Benito’s lead, creeping under the safety glass. The capo cautiously peeked over the thick, bolted sill before instructing his companion to head back to the tunnel. Manny obviously felt uneasy about it but complied.

Benito waited for Manny to get a head start before he slapped the glass as hard as he could. Manny looked like a deer caught in a set of oncoming headlights when he turned to see the guard heading for the door.

In the door’s swing zone, Sartori waited for his chance. He expected the bull to pass him by so he could grab him, but the man tripped and fell right in front of the prisoner. The guard locked his eyes on Sartori and immediately tried to grab him, snagging his shoulder.

Benito struggled to get away, but the guard had a viselike grip on him. His eerily vacuous eyes never wavered or blinked in the dim light of the cell block. Benito kicked against the steel door between him and the guard, hoping to force him to release his hold. It took a massive effort to free himself, but once the moaning guard lost purchase on Benito’s prison issued shirt, the capo scrambled around and over him. He entered the control room, heading straight for the gun rack.

Before Sartori could reach the shotguns, his ankle was seized, taking him down hard. Benito was up again quickly, fighting the bull’s efforts to pull him down, clinging to the rack of shotguns in his attempts to break free. With many of the weapons gone, he had to get to the far corner to claim one of the few that remained.

Manny had rushed to his friend’s aid, arriving late, and the door had been allowed to close. The big man was locked out, slamming against the pane to no avail, unable to aid Sartori.

Hopping on one foot, Benito fought to drag the jailer to the rack, needing just a few inches more. He couldn’t help finding it odd that the guard hadn’t uttered a single word to him, hadn’t told him to stop. He found it even odder that the man seemed bent on biting him.

All of his efforts to reach the rifles paid off. The second he had one in his hands, he turned and fired it point blank into the bull’s head. The projectile ricocheted off the man’s face, yet he seemed unaffected, though his left eye suffered an orbital blowout. The cheekbone was shattered, the eye ruptured from the incapacitating round and looked misshapen, and yet the guard still persisted. The bull had not released Benito either, but his eager moans were silenced when the capo stuck the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. But the guard still fought in silence.

The capo started to use the ineffective weapon as a bat. Balancing on one foot, he swung as hard as he could at the crazed man’s head, until he finally fell limply to the floor. He let himself fall as well, trying to catch his breath. Fucking beanbags! he mentally insulted the weapon he rested his head against.

Manny was still clamoring against the glass, and Benito used the shotgun to rise to his feet so he could let his friend in. On his way he savagely kicked the fallen bull for being such a ‘tough bastard,’ and his curses in his native language were amplified by the confining space. Kicking the boot that had held the door open, Sartori found it heavier than it should have been, as if something was in it. As he let Manny in, he picked the item up out of curiosity. The piece of apparel was immediately dropped when he discovered that it contained a foot.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“What do you mean?” Manny asked as Benito handed the errant footwear over. The body part made him shudder, and he dropped the shoe with a shiver.

Benito looked for real ammo, but turned up none. They would have to settle for the incapacitating beanbag rounds. He tossed one to his massively built companion, whose body actually dwarfed the long rifle, making it look like a toy in his meaty hands. They proceeded through the dark halls, all the way to the front door. The two had lost track of time, but opening the door told them it was night. Large flakes of snow fell, blinding them to anything that wasn’t in the immediate area; it was accumulating quickly in the almost empty parking lot.

A pair of headlights from an approaching vehicle struggled to cut through the whiteout. The arrival was almost completely obscured until it turned into the lot through the open gate. Sartori pulled his friend back into the prison before they could be seen. The two men peered out into the blizzard to see who had the audacity to foil their escape, yet again. Soldiers were huddling in the back of an open jeep under a large poncho, but the armed men hurriedly jumped out of their ride to come calling.

“Shit!” Sartori cursed. He led Manny back through the halls, the way they had come, and into a locker room. The crime boss scrambled to locate uniforms, tossing the largest items he could find to his associate. “Put these on.”

The soldiers knocked and awaited an answer. Another knock went ignored by the prisoners, who hid in the dark halls. There wasn’t a third, because the soliders kicked in the locked portal.

“Lots nearly empty. Looks like the guards have taken off, over,” Benito heard one doughboy report.

A crackly voice responded between intermittent bursts of white noise, “Proceed with caution… The scouts did not clear the facility… Check on the inmates and feed them. Do not let them out, over.”

“Roger that.”

Cleared? The capo thought, cleared of what? Beams of light sliced through the shadows on their way to where the jailbirds were hiding. Sartori had to act, so he challenged the intruders. “Who’s out there?”

The flashlights suddenly stopped and converged on the voice from the dark. One of the men responded, “The United States Army.”

“Oh, thank god!” Benito Sartori proceeded to join the soldiers, his puzzled enforcer in tow.

The soldiers didn’t share his relief. Instead they trained their rifles on him. One issued him an order. “Put it down!”

“It’s just a bean bag shotgun.”

“Yeah, but they hurt like hell,” the soldier countered. “Put ‘em on the ground, both of you.”

Benito and Manny complied, cautiously keeping their free hands in the air.

Sartori kept the act up. “The others just up and left us… What’s going on?”

“They don’t know?” one of the young soldiers asked.

“They probably haven’t had much contact with the outside.”

Not in a long time, Benito thought to himself.

##

The unfathomable explanation wasn’t too hard for Sartori to accept considering the exodus of the guards, and the tenacity of the one in the control room. He had seen screws fold under far less punishment. The soldiers informed the cons in bull’s clothing that they had been ordered to babysit the prison since the brass at Eagle Rock were unable to bring the caged men on base.

The prospect of having the army hovering while they tried to escape was unacceptable. Benito insisted that he and his comrade could handle it alone. Surely the soldiers were needed elsewhere.

“We are,” the leader of the squad had agreed. “They almost didn’t send us here. But I guess it’s the humane thing to do.”

“We appreciate the army’s compassion,” Benito said. “But, there’s no sense in pulling you off duty. Once that gate is closed there’s no way in, and those in lockup have no way out.”

A quick conference over the radio with command was all it took to ensure the departure of the soldiers. Sartori offered them a place to stay for the night since the weather was far too severe to risk travel, and not making the gesture would have been suspicious.

Sartori and Manny prepared their guests a meal in the chow hall after asking them to secure the halls. Benito told them they hadn’t been able to do so since all the real weapons had been taken.

In the morning the military deployed a plow and the soldiers departed. Periodic check-ins were promised to the seemingly grateful pair.

“What now, Benny?” Manny had asked as the tall steel gates closed them in.

“This is the safest place on earth,” the capo answered, “We’ll wait this out ‘till spring, then we’ll go home.”

“What about the other cons?”

“Fuck ‘em”

8

During the winter, the periodic checks on the prison became fewer and farther between. The military ended them all together and just issued the two diligent guards a radio to call in to tell them everything was ‘hunky-dory,’ but the army hasn’t responded to Sartori’s last few calls. The outside world has long been thawed and the prison’s supplies are exhausted. It’s time to go home.

Benito and Manny have made one of the remaining vehicles road ready; it took several tries to start since it had sat all winter, but they are on their way to one of the capo’s safe houses. A remote estate near Poland Creek that the crime boss purchased thinking no one would ever look for him there.

The streets of Poland Creek are quiet when Manny pulls into the lot of Gary’s Gas and Go, but the small town looks like a photograph of a massacre. Bodies are littered everywhere, left to waste away and rot. A line of cars stands motionless along the main street of the one stop light town.

“Grab booze and smokes,” Benny tells his loyal man, while he leans back in the passenger seat with his eyes serenely closed. “All you can carry.”

They had trouble scoring alcohol and nicotine in the joint once the world fell to the dead, because many of their hook-ups were locked in their cells with their wares. In retrospect, Sartori figures he should have kept some of the cons alive, instead of letting them starve and eat each other. But once they had all died out, the near silence was glorious. Their screams for freedom became a choir of moans that reverberated through the cell blocks like the benediction of monks.

His memory is dashed when Manny comes crashing out of the little store. The large man is screaming, running to the car with an armload of booty. He trips over one of the strewn bodies and loses his haul, and several of the cardboard crates of beer crack open, sending the cans rolling away in every direction. Sartori just watches.

Manny leaves everything behind to crawl to the safety of his lifelong friend. Benito had rolled his window down, and the enforcer heaves himself up to report. “They were all dead… I got the shit… One started to twitch, she… she bit me…”

The breathless account makes Benny’s heart sink, but he keeps a brave face. “Grab what you can. I can always come back.”

Manny gives the capo a nod and slowly returns to where he had stumbled. As he tries to return the dented and bulging cans to their home, the zombie emerges from the door his hasty exit had left open. Manny points to the old woman limping his way to draw Benny’s attention to her. Then he retreats with a few cartons of cigarettes and a couple of cases of beer.

Sartori gets out of the car with his incapacitating weapon. This zombie has robbed him of the most steadfast friend a man could have. People used to say that they’d ‘kill or die’ for another, odds are they were exaggerating, but Manny has more than proven his dedication over the years. The capo gets between the corpse and Manny; he angrily stares into the vacant eyes that are lustfully locked on him. Every step makes the dead woman’s head wobble, due to the heavy mass of hair weighting it down. A disaster of a blue beehive. Sartori fires point blank into her face, though he knows it won’t put her down, but it will knock her head back. The volume of hair proves to be too much, and she is unable to bring her head forward. The zombie walks backwards, her arms still reaching for the food. Benito strolls easily up to her so he can beat her savagely with the butt of his rifle.

Once the old woman is stilled, Sartori returns to his car. Manny is shutting the backdoor where he had loaded their supplies. He rests against the vehicle, and his weight actually makes it lean. “Should we get gas?”

Benny can see his pal’s ankle is bleeding profusely. A thin river runs off his shoe, pooling on the lot. “No, should be plenty,” Sartori says in a sad tone, knowing what he has to do.

“We should get going then, right?”

The capo doesn’t answer with words; he just aims the gun at his friend. Manny’s hands go up, and his eyes widen with shock. He begs for his life, but the pleas fall on deaf ears. One does not become as powerful as Sartori by letting ties of friendship interfere with survival. The capo thinks words he is unable to say to the man who has killed for him, yet has such innocent eyes. Sorry Manny, you’re dead to me.

The beanbags that issue from the shotgun may be ineffective on the zombies, but they’ll kill a human under certain circumstances. The large man falls, as does the capo’s spirit. He slides behind the wheel with a case of warm beer on his lap. One of the cans explode with an eruption when he opens it, and he doesn’t care. He downs the remaining contents, and his other hand is already reaching into the box for another. The thought of life without Manny is one he has never considered. Never thought possible.

The second can explodes with a similar geyser as Sartori drives with his knees. His beer slick hands now guide him home. Within the half-hour this last leg of his journey takes, he has filled the passenger side floor with empties. The gate of his massive home doesn’t open automatically like it had before he was sent to prison, and it takes the drunk man a few moments to figure out why.

“Oh yeah, the fucking zombies.”

His inebriated head wobbles like that of the walking corpse as he moves to the guard shack. It’s empty, but his bleary eyes can see that the monitors are all on. The estate still has power coming from the dam up north. Though his sentry isn’t at his post, Sartori hobbles in to see if his weapon is. He feels around under the bank of monitors for a firearm that puts his beanbag shotgun to shame. The Papa Bear of the Sartori family locates a fully-automatic MP5, and the machine pistol makes him smile as he slings it and opens the gate.

But a sight erases that smile. At the top of the long driveway sits a car that doesn’t belong, a vehicle that just doesn’t fit his style, a purple Camaro.

A growl builds in the Papa Bear’s throat, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed.”

9

Dustin Barnes has been living like a rockstar for two months, all alone in his new mansion. It took his entire first day to explore every room, from the wine cellar that reminds him of something out of an Edgar Allen Poe tale, to the fourth floor’s master suite that comprises about seventy percent of that level’s floor space. The rest is his private bathroom and what he considers a ‘drive-in’ closet. With all the stairs and the exhilaration of taking up residence, he had to crash early that first night on the double king-sized bed.

I’ve made it! he has been thinking to himself since discovering his new home. He has everything he’s ever wanted, all he feels he deserves: a big house, fully stocked kitchen, a massive pond sized pool that he can skinny dip in, and he’s outlived the world. Dustin has inherited the culmination of his ambitions, yet underneath all of the elation there’s a kernel of sorrow that he has no one to share it with.

The deep seeded longing for companionship is cast aside for the moment. Dustin is too busy shredding away on a guitar solo. The chords he strikes aren’t coming from his amp, but from a wide television screen on the wall of one of his large living rooms. His fingers are clacking in frenzy, hitting color coded keys prompted by the video game he’s made fun of in the past but is now hooked on. He hasn’t even brought his Les Paul in from the car yet.

He ends the song with a windmill, holding his hand aloft to salute the invisible crowd that exists only in his mind, or so he thought.

A slow clap stills his blood. He can’t tell where the sound is coming from. Dustin turns fast but sees no one. The creepy accolade seems to be coming from everywhere. Dropping the game controller, he takes cover behind one of the plush ‘L’ shaped couches.

“Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum!” deep angry words boom. “I smell the blood of a mu-si-shun!”

Dustin is in a panic, and he wishes he was upstairs in his lavish bedroom since it’s equipped with a room specifically for panicking. He peeks over the fat pillows in hopes of spotting whoever it is that’s intruding on his fortress. Then he tries to remember where he has left his M-16.

“I can see you, kid,” the mystery guest reveals. Dustin had forgotten about the cameras. “Look, I’m not in the mood for this. I had to kill my best friend in the whole world today and I just want to be alone… I’m going to let you walk away from this… Just walk away.”

Sartori watches the youth roll to another couch and creep into the hall. The drunken kingpin follows him on the monitors. It is apparent the boy isn’t going to leave when he cautiously makes for the stairs. You son of a bitch!

Every instinct in Dustin tells him to do what he always does and cut bait, to just take the deal. But the rocker in him won’t allow it. This is his place now and he will defend his claim to it for as long as it’s standing. His rifle is in the bedroom, he remembers. For the first half of his stay he had carried it around like a security blanket, but one morning he awoke and decided it to be unnecessary.

The squatter on the screens is ascending out of the frame of one monitor and appearing at the bottom of another. Benito Sartori pulls a bulletproof vest on over his head and cinches it tight over his chest. From the black footlocker where he got this body armor, he takes as many ammunition magazines as he can carry.

Benito taunts the youth, “You know, you look a lot like Scott Baio. I’m coming for you Charles, gonna show you who’s really ‘In Charge.’ The big bad wolf is on his way, little piggy. I’m gonna huff and puff and blow your ass away.”

Dustin ignores the mixed references the invisible man makes, focusing on the one that angers him the most, “Gah! Again with the fucking Scott Baio. I hate Scott Baio!”

Continuing up the curving stairs in the wide open foyer, Dustin is almost to the second floor when a thought stops him. What if he’s is up there? He pictures himself rushing into the bedroom for his gun and the sanctuary of the panic room, only to find the intruder waiting for him.

Frozen on the smooth stone steps, Dustin is at a loss as to what to do. Automatic gunfire takes out the windows below him, answering his dilemma. The boy rushes up the stairs in a low crawl using the elegant banister as cover from errant rounds that spark off and chip the granite and marble around him. Pock marks follow him along the wall above his head as he desperately climbs the risers.

“Do you know who I am?” the man screams in through the destroyed windows and his voice echoes, chasing Dustin all the way up to the top of the staircase.

“Evicted!” Dustin yells back.

“You little… I’ve killed many motherfuckers for showing me less disrespect than that, my friend! I’m gonna make you suffer! I know where you’re going. You can’t stay in there forever. If you want blood, you got it!”

Sealed inside the impenetrable room, hugging his assault rifle for strength, Dustin tells himself not to panic, though that is exactly what the room is designed for. The bare walls amplify his breathing, making it hard to calm himself down. His eyes are locked on a bank of monitors that show the man entering his home.

An intruder in his own house, Sartori takes uneasy steps through the foyer. He feels he may have over imbibed, yet the present excitement makes him crave another drink. The capo slips upon entering the sitting room just off the entryway; the largest of the home’s fully stocked bars was the first victim of his initial attack on the manor. Liquor bottles have shattered, their contents spreading over the marble floor. He picks up one of the few survivors on his way to the kitchen.

Dustin watches on one of the many monitors as the man curiously takes pots from their storage cupboards and places them on the stove. A tall one is filled with water from the faucet; into a saucepan he dumps the contents of a jar.

“Is he making spaghetti?”

A frozen log of hamburger is removed from the freezer and placed into the sink to thaw, and steam rises from the basin when the man turns the water on and leaves it running. Dustin can see the guy’s mouth moving. Though he can’t hear him, it looks as if he is singing. What strikes Dustin as really odd is the fact the man has placed his gun on the counter.

As the hamburger softens under the scalding tap, Benito prepares the other ingredients for his meatballs. He’ll have to make substitutions; his eggs are rotten and his milk is a thick sludge. The people who were supposed to tend to his home have failed him, and he figures they must have abandoned the place not too long after his incarceration. With his assets frozen by the government, they’d need to look elsewhere for a means to make a living.

“Fuck ‘em.”

Opera, Dustin discerns what the man is singing by how wide he opens his mouth and by his elaborate movements. It’s definitely opera. A frozen loaf of garlic bread is being sawed in half, but the task appears to be very difficult, and this makes Dustin wonder if he can get the drop on the guy. As he cracks the vault-like door open, he keeps a watchful eye on the crooning cook, who doesn’t falter in his preparations. He takes a break from the solid loaf to stir a generous amount of red wine into his sauce. It’s like he’s forgotten all about me. Stealthily, Dustin descends the stairs, listening to the off key acappella.

At the swinging kitchen door, Dustin makes certain his safety is off and his rifle is ready to fire its three shot burst--the ‘rock and roll’ setting. He steels his resolve before pushing the door open, ready to kill the stranger.

“Did you think I forgot about you?” the chef stops his attack on the frozen bread. The serrated knife is removed from the frosted crust and held menacingly.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dustin warns the man at the end of his sights. He motions with the flash suppressor for the guy to back away from his own weapon that’s just out of reach on the counter. Now Dustin has two options: kill the guy, or tell him to leave. Either way, he’s eating this food and keeping the house.

“Get out,” Dustin says coolly.

“Nope,” the man responds with a slow shake of his head.

“Then, I’ll shoot you.”

“No you won’t,” the man says, taking deliberate steps around the kitchen’s island, closer to Dustin. “You smell that?”

He does smell something in the air, and it isn’t a fine Italian meal. Gas!

The man that vowed to make Dustin suffer stalks closer still, armed with a long bread knife. “Papa Bear’s porridge is too hot, Goldilocks.”

The stove was transported from the old country by his grandparents; it’s all his Nonna would cook on. The antique appliance has no pilot light, and once the gas is started one has to ignite it with a match, or else. Dustin had tried the relic, but he thought it was broken when it didn’t flame up. He knows now that he’s been had, lured down to be killed. He has no idea if he can fire or not. Has the gas been on long enough to fill this big ass kitchen?

“Shoot me,” the man says coyly. “Kill us both.”

Dustin dashes out of the kitchen and across the sitting room. The booze slick floor takes his feet out from under him, and he hits the stone hard then slides into the bar. Dustin collects himself fast in the puddle of spirits, then he turns to see Sartori, airborne with the knife held high. The M-16 releases three fast shots into the lunging man’s chest.

The armor Benito wears takes the rounds but leaves him winded. Both contenders for the estate get cut on the broken glass beneath them, and burned by the alcohol that enters their wounds.

Dustin takes advantage of his opponent’s injured state to crawl behind the dark wood bar. He still doesn’t know if his muzzle flash would have set off the gas in the kitchen, but that doesn’t stop him from lining his sights on the groaning man now.

With all the stovetop burners set to high, and without a flame to consume the gas, the kitchen is still filling with propane. Having just had its doors opened, the refrigerator attempts to regulate its temperature. The compressor engages, creating a spark that ignites the air in the room in a flash.

Dustin has been waiting for the intruder to compose himself in order to issue an ultimatum, leave or die. He doesn’t have to. Before he can utter the words he has been rehearsing, the swinging door of the kitchen is taken off its hinges. Propelled by a rolling inferno, the wooden plane decapitates the intruder.

Dustin’s ears ring from the blast. He had shielded his face instinctively from the intense, searing air and ducked down below the bar. His situation has not improved with the removal of his nemesis, but grown far more dire. Fire is about to rob him of his found home. Smoke pours out of the charred kitchen, setting off whining detectors. The flammable vapors from the alcohol that covers the stone flooring has combusted, and a pool of blue flames blocks Dustin’s only way out.

Using a stream of seltzer from the bar’s multi-beverage dispenser hose, he frantically tries to douse the flames. He succeeds in diluting the fuel, but has caused a rippling current that spreads the fire outward to the walls of the room. Soon the couches and curtains are on fire and the carbonated extinguisher cannot reach them. Dustin yanks on the line for more extension, but it won’t budge.

His glorious rockstar palace is burning around him, and the incessant alarms are telling him it is time to go. In typical rockstar fashion, he had it all and lived it up, and now he has lost everything. Dustin just walks out the front door to his Camaro, which still holds all of his supplies--from his guns to his MREs, his MP3 players to all the explosives in his trunk. Vowing to actually go by the dash mounted compass this time, he strikes north to Fallen.

10

Fallen is a small town populated by sporadically placed mobile homes. The main street that features dive bars and liquor stores is deserted. Even the dead don’t want to be here. Dustin imagines the place was depressing even before the zombies appeared. A dying community that owed what traffic it received to alcoholism and, of course, the notorious strip club he was once slated to play at.

The Flag Pole once drew crowds on a nightly basis. Folks, men folk that is, came from miles away to watch the talent on stage. Dustin had heard that many of the dancers would get extra friendly for the right price. Though not all the ladies were for sale, most were.

The man who owned the place, Beau, also owned the adjacent motel and diner. He was a big fish in an extremely small pond.

Dustin stands outside that property now, which is surrounded by a tight ring of cars. It makes him wonder if the man that had hired his band might still be in business.

The windows of the diner and the first floor of the motel are boarded over. The entrance to the club is protected by a crudely fabricated plywood barrier, and the sheets of particle board create a foyer. Red spray paint boasts: Girls! Girls! Girls!

That’s a good sign. Dustin slings his Les Paul and pockets several of his MP3 players. Taking an assault rifle and his revolver, he hops over the wall of cars, leaving his own parked outside the perimeter. At the entrance, he can’t find a way in. A wood barrier has been nailed to the posts of the awning that should lead into the Flag Pole.

Pistol at the ready, he starts to travel counterclockwise around the parking lot that encompasses the businesses. He hopes to find a way in around the back of the establishments, but hope fails when he sees just how exclusive the place has become.

The smell of decay greets him behind the place. The back section appears to have once been used for deliveries and trash disposal. The later seems to remain true still, as evident by the bodies strewn indiscriminately on the asphalt, left to bake in the sun. Twenty or more by his horrified count, like neglected action figures.

“Holy shit,” he says impulsively, disregarding the need to be quiet. The bodies however do not disregard him. Heads begin to loll and necks crane to find the source of the cursing. Sunken, eager eyes lock onto the trespasser. These dead haven’t eaten in a long time, and the insatiable hunger makes them far spryer than those he has encountered before.

The zombies get to their feet as fast as decomposition and injuries will allow. No infirmity will keep them from the morsel that recoils at the sight of them. Those that can’t walk crawl after him with vigor.

The shock wears thin quickly and Dustin turns, heading away in the direction he had come. The dead are on his heels, moaning differently than the city dwellers so long ago, sounding more pitiful. These corpses seem to beg him to stop. They plead with him for a bite in their dead language.

He has no intentions of satisfying their hunger. He sprints across the front lot, and his rifle and instrument batter his back with every panicked stride. Dustin takes the next corner wide, not wanting to race into the waiting arms of whatever may be coming from the other direction. There are no dead to be concerned with ahead of him, until he returns to where the race began. The crawlers have only made it to the corner just past the dumpsters.

Dustin dashes to the receptacles before the creeping corpses can turn, and those closing in behind him can catch up. He leaps up to grab the top of the wall, hauling himself on top of the Flag Pole. The only way in or out of the establishment has to be up here, he contends, since there are no evident entry points on the ground floor.

He has made it to the roof before the deceptively quick dead reach the back, and he lies on the gravel surface as they continue to circle the connected buildings, chasing the food that is no longer on the menu. The crawlers foolishly join the pursuit though they have seen him climb out of reach. Obviously they see their peers running and figure there must be more meat available, remaining a lap behind their faster counterparts.

Dustin creeps over the thinning layer of small stones, where patches of tar paper peek from under the crunching gravel. At the awning, he sees a hole cut into the overhang. His way in, and a ladder allows him entry to his goal.

Dustin knocks on the glass door within the wooden booth. Beyond the locked portal, he hears movement and sees a figure approach through the tinted window. But no amount of squinting will answer the question that burns in his mind. Is he dead?

The dark figure takes its time reaching the door, and Dustin holds his breath in anticipation. He tries to hear the person closing in on him over the beseeching moans of the dead. Below the wailing, he detects the most wonderful sound, music.

“What do you want?” a male voice asks from within the club, through a crack he makes at the door.

“I wanna rock.”

##

Dustin is instructed to keep his hands in the open, where the rotund man who has answered the door can see them. He complies, while the balding gentleman keeps a bead on him with a sawed off shotgun. Then Dustin is ushered down a dark hall. Here, the walls that flank him are decorated with framed posters of strippers. Under each peeler, engraved on brass plates, are their names. One of the stills outshines all the rest, so much that Dustin must do a double take. He stops in his tracks to admire the goddess.

“Is she here?”

“Carla?” the man asks. “No. Probably dead. Damned shame.”

A nudge from the stout weapon prods Dustin deeper into the dim den that stinks of stale cigarettes mixed with fresher smoke. A man behind the bar sets his roughly stubbled face into a wide grin. “Sweet Jesus! We’ve got a customer. Lita! Vita! Wake up!”

The man slaps the dark wood of the counter to arouse two blonde ladies slumbering at one of the round tables. They wear next to nothing, and the first to her feet is clearly getting too old for the job. There are more lines on her face than a cocaine addict’s mirror. And if the occupation has weight standards, Dustin can assume she is well out of them. The other one is pretty enough for her profession, however her weight class leans in the other direction. This younger girl is an emaciated stick, not much thicker than the pole she now grabs a hold of on stage.

The music changes for the show, from Ozzy Osbourne’s shrill yet beautiful vocals to classic Poison. Dustin never could comprehend why 80s hair bands and stripping went so perfectly together. He forgoes the lackluster show to talk to the man at the bar. Beau, if he isn’t mistaken.

“We ain’t had no new blood in here for quite some time.” The man sets his meaty forearm on the counter. “Where’re you from?”

“Waterloo,” Dustin tells the man, whose scraggly grey hair is pulled back in a ponytail. The greeter lingers within arm’s reach of him.

“He says he ‘wants to rock,’” the man behind Dustin explains.

“Cletus, put that thing away!” Beau waves off the need for the weapon.

“But, he’s packing!” Cletus protests.

“I can see that, you asshole. Git back to your post! He ain’t here fer trouble.”

“My name is Dustin,” he nervously spits out. “I’m with the Dogs of War.”

“What’s that? Some sorta biker gang?” The man draws a beer from one of the taps. A tall, grimy mug is set down on a coaster for Dustin and slid across the greasy surface. The man smiles with only half the teeth nature intended for him. “Frankly, you don’t look the type.”

“We’re a band… well… were a band. I’m the last one. We were supposed to play here a few months ago.”

The man laughs deeply at that. When he has the breath to speak, he says, “Better late than never, I guess. Now, you are one dedicated rocker!”

“Yeah…” Dustin isn’t sure if it’s the situation that’s the joke, or he himself. “It’s my dream. I at least wanted to see the place…”

“Here it is!” The man raises his arms to display the majesty of his kingdom, in all its dinginess. “How about room and board to play a few sets a night, and become one of my foot soldiers?”

“Foot soldier?”

“You know, defend the homestead, go on supply runs, shit like that.”

“Sounds good.” He nods, because making a living by playing music is all he has ever wanted.

“If you cross me, I’ll feed you to my mosh pit out there,” the boss warns. “Now, for your work I’ll give you a room, food, and a few beers a day. If you choose to sample the other amenities, you best have cash money.”

Cash? Dustin didn’t think that the concept of commerce still held value. “What amenities?”

“Drugs and pussy,” the man says plainly as he wipes the filthy bar with a dirty rag. “The finest things life has to offer.”

Dustin never acquired a taste for drugs, but since being able to relax for months at Fort Eagle Rock his hormones have stabilized into the normal, hyperactive, range of a nineteen-year-old. His amorous feelings went unattended on post, and now even the substandard ladies on stage make his trousers feel more constricting. Looking at the uninspired striptease being performed by the drowsy, dead-eyed girls, despite their clumsy attempts at being provocative, he must ask a question, “How much?”

“That’s my wife and daughter,” Beau says sternly. “You can’t afford them.”

Dustin has no idea how Beau knows that he hasn’t any money. He now can’t take his eyes from the younger of the ungainly dancers, his eagerness making her nonexistent curves more voluptuous with each passing second.

“I do take trades,” the man adds. “You’ll just have to lower your standards.”

How the fuck is that possible? What issues from his mouth is a different inquiry, “What kind of trade?”

“Anything of value in exchange for seven minutes in Heaven.” The man hitches his thumb to a handwritten sign over his shoulder that extols the going rate for such a privilege to be five hundred dollars.

Dustin lays one of his MP3 players upon the bar. He hates to lose the portable library that contains so many of his favorite songs, but he hates the anxious urge building within him, the urge that has to be released.

“That ain’t much,” the guy remarks. “But that axe and the pod will earn you a lifetime pass to my VIP room.”

“If I give you my guitar, how will I play?”

“I’ll let you borrow it come show time.”

Dustin unslings the coveted instrument. He hasn’t so much as fingered the frets let alone played it since liberating it from the store. He has longed to own it since first he laid eyes upon it. It’s not like I won’t get to play her. “Deal!”

The man takes the axe gingerly. “I know it must be hard to part with such a fine thing as this. I’ll let you bust a few nuts before I put you to work.”

The instrument is leaned behind the bar for safe keeping. The man walks out from behind the counter. “Dustin, is it? Let me take you to Heaven.”

The boy zealously walks with Beau, whose arm drapes over his shoulder. Even the sharp odor from the man’s body isn’t enough to wipe the happy smile from his face. The pair head towards the back of the bar, to the VIP room. The scruffy man talks while escorting his new employee. “I need a bunch of shit from town. Ingredients for making brain candy.”

Dustin wonders if he means meth. Such a cheaply manufactured drug would be his biggest seller, if the users can make it through the mosh pit.

The men come to a halt by the back door. Through the peep hole the boss can see his ward has riled up the moat of corpses that still chase their tails.

Kegs of beer and crates of spirits crowd the hall, instead of being behind the door labeled: Barrel Storage. Dustin also notices that he is surrounded by brooms and mops, yet there is an adjacent door designated for cleaning supplies.

“I knocked the wall down between these two rooms for optimal space,” Beau explains.

One of the two doors that lead to Heaven is opened. Dustin expected perfume or the scent of flowers, but what he receives is the stench of death. The room’s name is a misnomer, for he is entering Hell. In lieu of ‘baby making music’ he hears flies buzzing, urgent moans, and the rattle of chains. Dead ladies are thrashing against their bondage upon seeing the boy and their pimp.

“I never feed ‘em. I’ve been told they move better than the real thing. These bitches are still fairly fresh; the blonde got bit, the other blonde OD’d. The red-head over there killed herself. The brunette just got mouthy.”

Some of the undead prostitutes are chained to steel rollaway beds in different poses. One, the other blonde, is shackled over a step stool. All eyes are on the boy, for they obviously desire him. But this isn’t the type of desire he had bargained for.

“I’ll leave you to it,” the man says, shutting the door behind him.

Dustin is alone, looking at each subjugated corpse bride in turn. His temper flares, and he has only one thought, “I’m getting my guitar back!”

11

“Beau, you really think it’s smart to bring him in like that?” Cletus asks, once again away from his post.

“Yup,” the boss responds absently, too busy scrolling through the songs on his new music device to pay his associate much mind. “You see that heat he’s carrying? Better to have him on our side. Could be useful. Why don’t you make yourself useful and plug this into the system. Play track nine. I love me some Rob Zombie.”

The player is jacked into the club’s sound system, and a computer altered voice floods the smoke hazed space, “Living dead girl.”

As the opening guitar riffs shake the building’s foundation, Dustin enacts his revenge. Using the end of two wide bristled brooms he has lashed together, he escorts the dead prostitutes to the bar.

Beau flinches from the sight. “What the fuck?”

“Give me my guitar!” Dustin demands.

“Son,” Beau sounds calm, though he cringes and withdraws from the four sets of gnashing teeth. The duct tape muzzles, meant to protect the beer-addled Lotharios who frequent the place, have been removed. “I told you not to cross me. You got what you traded for. Live ladies, my dear wife and little girl in particular, cost folding money…”

Cletus, who had returned to his post at the door, now comes running. He is winded, unaccustomed to such exertion. Aiming with his weapon isn’t necessary, especially at this range, but he looks down the barrel anyway. He has the dangerous end pointed directly at Dustin.

“No!” Beau shouts, knowing that if the kid falls he’ll release the girls gone wild.

The pivot point Dustin lashed at the center of the brooms is the only thing keeping him safe, and the quartet of ravenous strippers turn in erratic directions, causing them to fight against each other. The old brooms won’t hold forever and he knows it, but he only needs them to last until he has retrieved what is rightfully his.

“I want my shit NOW!”

The zombies are moved closer to the cowering boss. So he has no choice but to surrender the axe. He slides the instrument along the bar. Until now Dustin has held the brooms with both hands, but one will have to be released to gain the Les Paul.

One of the zombies eyeing Beau is released, and she chases him towards the bar. He decides not to go behind the counter where he has a gun, since the counter comes to a dead end and he will only become trapped. The ladies follow him down the hall where they have been held captive, being teased by the very food they now desire and have access to.

Beau runs, hoping to find safety, but he only finds more death, since the boy he trusted to join his family had cracked open the back door. His mosh pit enters the crowded hall, and he’s trapped. The joined zombies behind him take him to the filthy floor, where he dies screaming in agony.

No advantage is given to Cletus, who must listen to his boss die. The reanimated blondes are swung in his direction and released. They are starving for flesh and zealously take after the large man. The two zombies’ unsteady gait is made even more uneven as they offset one another. He unloads into them with his gun, as he had in the past with his body, but just like then he is premature, and the buckshot merely pelts their limbs and trunks. Dustin isn’t concerned by the presence of the dead. He’s already on his way down the hall, heading for the exit. He passes the framed posters of the very girls he was offered, but they are hardly recognizable now.

Dustin lets himself fall from the awning, and he places his foot against the plywood as he descends to slow his journey to the asphalt. The running dead are all inside the out-of-business club, so he must simply skirt around the crawling stragglers. He rushes to the ring of cars, happy to see his ride but at a loss as to where he should go now.

Dustin holds no qualms with prostitution, willing prostitution. But the idea of working for a drug dealer who defiles his dead employees like that is nothing he wants to be a part of. He has food and guns, and he knows he will find a place to live. As far as female companionship, he’ll just have to see what the future holds.

The situation makes him laugh once he has a second to relax. The signage of the joint boasts: Girls! Girls! Girls! It makes no claims to having live girls.

He’s about to put his purple Camaro into drive when he hears yelling beyond his doors. On the roof, the younger of the two awkward dancers he had been ‘entertained’ by, Beau’s daughter, stands waving for his attention. She timidly scales down the building and squeamishly evades the dead on the ground on her way to him. Her bare shoulders are covered by a thin blue blanket.

The time it takes the girl to climb over a compact car allows Dustin a chance to admire her in the light of day. Her anorexic frame aside, she’s actually very beautiful, and practically the last woman on Earth. She places her palms on his passenger window, and he lowers the pane to hear what she has to say.

“Take me with you?”

The answer is simply given by unlocking the door. A sigh of relief escapes her after she slides into the seat. The car is turned back the way he had come and the accelerator is pressed to the floor. The Flag Pole grows smaller in the rearview and he’s glad, because he wants to put as much distance as possible between him and the club.

The two sit in silence in the speeding car. The only sound besides the engine and the road is the girl’s sniffling. Wrapped in her blue leopard print blanket, the young damsel cries softly. Dustin was hoping to play the role of hero for her, stoically take her away from her subjugated existence, and take her someplace safe where she can show him her appreciation. Instead he feels weird, as it just seems odd to let her cry and not talk, too creepy.

Struggling for something to say, some sort of icebreaker, he comes up almost entirely blank. “What’s your name?”

“Lita,” she answers.

Of course it is, he scolds himself. Her dad said her name. The man I killed. Dustin returns to silence, deciding that playing the mysterious stranger angle will do just nicely. He needs to figure out where they will go.

The girl hisses in pain, taking a sharp intake of air as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat to see her shoulder under her covering. The flesh is ravaged and raw. “Do you have a bandage?”

A screeching halt lurches Lita forward. She is thrown to the dashboard, leaving just enough room for Dustin to reach for her door handle. He ejects the frail girl out onto the dusty road. The car resumes its traveling without pausing long enough for the passenger door to be closed. It waves goodbye to her as she is pelted with loose gravel kicked up by the powerful wheels.

He tries not to look in his mirrors, but he is compelled to. The girl just lies in the road, and they watch each other grow smaller. Dustin tries not to feel too bad; the hamburger made of her arm can only be the result of one of the zombies getting a taste of her.

“She’s already dead,” he tells himself on his way through the ghost town of Fallen.

The guilt he feels isn’t lifting, and no amount of rationalization will alleviate it at the moment. He needs a distraction, so he pulls the MP3 players out of his pocket, skipping the one that holds Rob Zombie’s entire catalog and now some painful memories.

He scans the contents of his devices, gazing occasionally at the road before him. On one of the fleeting occasions he attends to his driving, he is almost too late; where the road intersects with the highway, he must come to another screeching halt, lest he collide with a rust brown tow truck.

The items he hauls shift forward, and he worries about his guitar. Dustin checks the instrument for damage, disregarding the damage that almost befell him until he considers the ordinance he has in his trunk. His hands now tremble on the wheel; the thought of blowing himself up suddenly makes him hesitant to drive at all.

Taking slow, deliberate breaths through his nose, he calms his racing heart. His newfound tranquility is turned to panic once more, though, when he sees the driver exit the old wrecker. The man is not only tall but built of thick muscle.

“Hey, moron!” the towering giant bellows while pointing to the side of the road. “That’s a stop sign!”

Dustin’s wide-eyed gaze doesn’t falter from the approaching brute, not even to take in the octagonal placard the guy indicates. He simply takes his foot off of the brake and depresses the gas, crossing the highway.

The large man has to leap out of the path of the purple speedster. Several paranoid glances behind him reveal to Dustin that the beast is not following, so he eases off the throttle. He has no idea where he is or where he’s going. He just hopes that it’s safe.

A fluttering of nausea grips his stomach. The actions he was forced to take at the Flag Pole, and thoughts that the frightening tow truck driver he fears may come looking for him one day, is making him sick. Above that, nothing knots his guts more than the awareness that he is alone in the world.

He contemplates his fate. Will he be doomed to wander the land, trying to survive up until the day some lucky zombie finally gets a piece of him, or until he decides to end it all himself.

“As long as I have my music, I will survive.”

Section VI. Dead on Arrival

1

The hulking man watches the purple Camaro speed off into the distance. He hasn’t seen many strangers on the road, let alone such inconsiderate drivers. The radio in his beat-up tow truck squawks, drawing him from his fuming. The driver’s side door emits a metallic squeak upon opening. He leans into the vehicle the children of New Castle have dubbed Mater.

“Oz. Come in, Oz,” a tinny female voice beckons over the CB.

“Go ahead, Carla.”

“It’s getting late. Why don’t you bring it in for the night?”

“Sure thing. I was just about to turn around.”

“Where are you?” the self-appointed sheriff asks.

“Near your old stomping grounds, actually.”

“Fallen? Ew! Anything to report?”

“Naw… Well, I almost collided with some asshole in a Camaro,” he tells her while getting behind the wheel.

“A survivor? Are you bringing him in?”

“He took off.”

“Aw! Sweetie, you didn’t scare him away, did you?” she says with faux disappointment.

“Who, me? No, I just critiqued his driving,” Oz sugar coats his explanation. “The skittish fuck just bolted.”

“Wanna grab a bite when you hit town?”

“Rain check. I have to help David move into his new place.”

“I heard about that. You fellas couldn’t make it work, you know, for the kids?”

“No way.” Oz turns his wrecker to face north towards New Castle. “We’re a complete odd couple. The oddest part being that I’m Felix.”

“Times are hard enough on children, but adding a broken home life…” Ever since Oz had arrived in town with two dozen children and a male nurse named David, Carla has razzed him about his situation. It’s her way of showing him he belongs.

“They’ll cope,” he says. “We’re alternating custody.”

“That’s good!” she says with exaggerated enthusiasm. “And you’ll meet someone else. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

Oz takes a deep breath. He realizes she knows the truth about his perfectly platonic life partnership with the man, forged from unusual circumstances, but she insists on riding him over it. As irritating as it is, being unaccustomed to anyone having the balls to make jokes at his expense, especially so unrelentingly, he enjoys it. He easily integrated into the team since he has a brief history with the king back in Waterloo.

He changes the subject, “Are we still heading to Raleigh in the morning?”

“Yup, just after Becka’s big debut,” she reports excitedly. “And guess who’s coming with us.”

“You’re kidding!” He smiles into the handset. “The queen’s cool with this?”

“Talked to her myself. Raleigh fits all the criteria. It’s close, walled up, and there hasn’t been any movement detected in the town.”

##

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Heather Williamson admits over dinner.

Dan pauses in the spoon feeding of their youngest child, Vincent, so he can whine. “You said I could. You even told Carla I could go.”

“I know but…” She tries to counter as she cuts the food of the oldest, Jack, into smaller pieces.

Her husband interrupts her sentence. “And you’re always trying to get me out of the house.”

“Not out of town.” She shakes her head. “I mean the office, or around New Castle.”

He groans at that idea. The citizens have been getting to him ever since the crown had been permanently affixed to his head over two months ago. Plus he hates the idea of sending people into the unknown without taking any of the risk himself, as his late Uncle Bruce had advised. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be with Carla and Oz and a bunch of other guys with guns.”

“Fine. But if you get bit, don’t come crying to me.” She surrenders the topic once again. “How was work today?”

“I swear these people are getting stupider with each passing day.”

Heather laughs, since this isn’t the first time she’s heard him say such a thing. “I told you, they aren’t getting any stupider, they’re just returning to normal.”

“All they do is squabble and complain about the most asinine things.”

“See? Normal.” She smiles. “What was it this time?”

“The topper was a land dispute.”

“That doesn’t sound…”

“They aren’t even from here! They’re refugees from Waterloo. One started a flower garden, the neighbor found the property abstract… I flipped a coin and made the loser move.”

“Can I see the coin you used?” She asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t see why…”

“You didn’t really go off the coin, did you?”

“The garden was already dug!” Dan exclaims. “That prick waited until the work was done before bitching about it.”

After dessert, Dan and Heather clean up the boys and partake in playing with them. The boys’ father tickles them in what he calls ‘Gotcha-time.’ He pretends to eat them in turn while the boys giggle uncontrollably. A dark thought is always present in the back of his head during this. What if I ever do turn into a zombie? What if I actually tried to devour them? He shakes off the imagery and accompanying sounds of gleeful laughter turning into imaginary shrill screams of pain.

The boys have been put down for the night, so the couple washes the dishes together. Dan finds the routine relaxing because it makes the place feel like home. An unspoken choice hangs thickly in the air between them. A decision must be made that will irrevocable throw off their routine, and lead to many sleepless nights. It’s the culmination of another debate the Williamsons have been having for the past month.

“I think we should,” Dan says plainly, though the subject has not been broached this evening. “It’ll be our own return to normalcy.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, handing him a plate to dry. Her eyes return to the basin of soapy water, but they go wide upon the realization of what he is referring to, “A baby?”

They’ve talked about it, neither taking a definite side, only weighing the options. They had always said they wanted two due to the expense, but that’s no longer applicable. The old inn they live in has ample room for many children, and there’s even room for their children’s children. Dan explains that since technically Jack is not their child by birth, and was instead rescued when he was nine months old, they’re not breaking their prior vow. Heather turns and hugs her husband, her hands sodden with suds. She is happy beyond words, and they have everything they have ever wanted, but who couldn’t use a little more love around the house.

##

Though the night is warm, Dustin wraps himself in a blanket and clicks on the portable heater. He is fighting a chill no number of blankets or warmth can alleviate--loneliness. He has found a place to park for the night that he hopes will prove safe, on top of a hill just north of a town called Raleigh.

He assumes the dead won’t venture against gravity unless they are chasing a meal. But he feels vulnerable despite his precautions, weapons, and the steel cocoon that surrounds him. He feels lost though he has nowhere to be, no home, no destination. No hope.

Sleep doesn’t come easy for him. He stares out his windshield, seeing lights in the distance, but these are false promises. He knows this region gets its power from a dam on the Charles River. Just porch lights with no one home, he thinks. He spots a red beacon in the air that he believes to be a radio tower, and it flashes on and off rhythmically, finally lulling him to sleep.

2

“Gooood morning, New Castle! This is your friendly neighborhood DJ, Becka Connelly, coming atcha over the airwaves. And to all of you in the listening area outside our walls, stop in and see us. Our motto is: New Castle, we won’t eat you. As coined by our fallen monarch, the great Bruce Williamson.

“Being my inaugural broadcast, let me tell you what this show is all about. I will be passing info to you from our leaders, and announcements from your fellow citizens, between the music. You may have seen blue mailboxes all over town that once belonged to the United States Postal Service, but are now our suggestion boxes, and not to be used as trashcans anymore, guys. Write down anything you want me to say on the air, or make musical requests. Also feel free to jot down your suggestions for the town, or gripes, as these are not to be taken directly to the king or his people anymore. Mrs. McCleary, this means you! If you absolutely must see the king, please make an appointment at our town office.

“Now, before I play the music I’d like to remind you all about ‘Living with Survival.’ It’s a support group that meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in the basement of the community center. A nice, safe place where you can unload tales of your life among the dead, if those memories are still giving you trouble…”

##

Becka’s voice emits from radios all over town. Dan had reservations over the location of the station, beyond the protective walls of New Castle and over the river, about halfway to Parson’s Dam. But she assured him that it will be all right, that she will remain armed and travel with an escort to and from. It was the suggestion box idea that had sold him. Anything to cease, or in the very least curtail, the numerous people who stop him and Carla on the street to issue grievances regarding their neighbors, or complain about how things are being run. Dan’s only problem now is the inevitable backlash from what Becka had said about Mrs. McCleary. This won’t be good.

“You know that old bat is going to be gunning for you, right?” Carla enters Dan’s office with a clipboard.

“I know,” he responds, already exasperated. Just the prospect of the busybody who lets her severe religious beliefs sculpt her opinions about everything, to the point of wanting to convert others to her way, is making his stomach hurt sharply.

“How about a quickie before we head out of town?” Carla asks.

“No.” Dan shakes his head adamantly.

“Come on!” she encourages. “You’re in, you’re out, we’re done.”

“Fine.” He sighs, defeated. “Let’s get it over with.”

The two exit the king’s office, heading to the conference room. He asks his sheriff, “What is it this time?”

“Divorce,” she says, stifling a laugh.

“Another one?” he groans. “Fuck’s wrong with people? Got my box?”

Carla hands Dan his shoebox. The perfect tool for this particular matter. He enters the room where a somber looking couple sits at the long table. Sheriff Carla remains in the hall, lingering nearby to listen. Proceedings like these have been getting progressively more hilarious as the king has grown increasingly hostile.

King Williamson sits across from the unhappy pair in a plush swivel chair. He doesn’t say a word to them at first. He just opens the box and removes a bottle of lotion. “Divorce, huh?”

“Yes, sire,” the husband answers.

“Don’t call me that.” Dan abhors the title. He just holds out his hand and slides the duo the lotion. “Rings.”

He doesn’t look at the jewelry he receives. The slick bands are just dropped into the box where they clatter against so many others that have suffered a similar fate. “There you go. You’re divorced. Get out.”

“What about the dissolution of our property?” the ex-wife asks.

“Any kids?”

“No, but we have a house,” the man says. “I think I should get it since I made all the payments before…”

“And I think I should get it since I maintained it. All the cleaning, home improvements, and I just planted tomatoes.”

“Divorce is never easy.” Dan leans back in his chair, trying to keep a straight face. “Especially when tomatoes are involved. They can be downright messy. Ma’am would you say you’ve been the sole caregiver to the tomatoes, raising them?”

“Yes,” she says, not certain if he is being serious or not.

“My decision is clear. Ma’am, you will get the house. Sir, you will see Sheriff Carla tomorrow about placement, but you will have full fruit visitation rights, of course. As far as possessions, you will each take away with you the shit you brought into your marriage.”

“Can we have our rings back?” the now ex-husband asks.

“No.” He herds the newly single pair out to the hall. “I’m sure, in the next few months, one, or both, of you will drag some new idiot in here that’s dumb enough to want to marry you. That is when you can select a ring from the box, or the jewelry store can be opened for your special event.”

Dan waits for them to leave before turning to Carla, who tries to remain casual but is fighting laughter. “I thought tough times were supposed to bring people closer together.”

“They do,” she responds. “But, tough times are over.”

“No they’re not. There’s still zombies, right?”

“Yeah, but the people feel safe enough to let their guard down, be human.” She walks with him outside to the street where her van is parked--the Attack Track. Her blue ride has been customized for missions; the windows have been barred, and the fuel tank has been expanded for extended travel.

From the municipal building, they can see a fleet of buses parked within the fenced lot of the school. Dan had asked for them, but not for what is being painted on their powder blue sides: For when the sky falls.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks, insulted.

“Jeez! What’s eating you, crabby? It’s just a joke. You know, because you’re kinda like Chicken Little.” She chuckles, getting a visual of it. “Always running around, thinking the sky is falling. You expect some big shit storm is on the way.”

“I don’t expect it.” He crosses his arms defensively in her passenger seat. “I just want us to be prepared if something happens.”

“Like the tornado siren?”

“We live in the fucking Midwest. Seems like a good idea!” Dan hitches his thumb to the back of Carla’s vehicle, where all of the seats have been removed and replaced with racks of rifles. Down the center of the van lays a long steel bin full of ammo. “How about you? Did you bring enough for the rest of the class?”

“You aren’t the only one who likes to be prepared.”

On their way out of town, they see Mrs. McCleary shoving fistfuls of paper into one of the new suggestion boxes. The sight makes them both groan.

Ever since Dan was the temporary king of the town, he’s had his fleet exploring the outer reaches for survivors. Only a handful of souls have been brought in. Then they reported finding Raleigh, a town that has been sealed much like New Castle, only there isn’t any movement visible from the outside. They are all curious as to who walled the place up, and where they are now. Dan likes the idea of having a back-up settlement, should something befall their current home. They can place folks there with supplies and weapons, animals and crops. They can be fully established sister towns, and one society can escape to the other should the sky happen to fall.

3

Dustin awakes from his uncomfortable slumber with a crick in his neck. The lights he had seen last night have him thinking, and he has decided to travel towards them. He knows he probably won’t find life, but he is confident that he can locate a place to call his own, a place where he can make his stand against this mad world. He has food for months and plenty of firepower; if he can just keep his head down he should all right.

Besides a tense stop for fuel at a remote gas station that had him white-knuckling the pump, he has been aimlessly cruising along wooded roads. If not for the fact he hasn’t passed through any border crossings, he’d think he was in Canada. The dashboard compass has been pointing north for a long time. He turns onto a narrow dirt road that may be a rural driveway. The Camaro slowly rolls in the grooves of the well-worn path. Branches scrape the purple steel of his roof on his way to the unknown.

The overhead foliage blocks out the June sun so completely he debates whether he should use his headlights. As he’s about to turn the knob, the world opens up around him. The vast acreage is impressive, and it dwarfs the two story farmhouse at its center. The rutted drive leads through a time-battered post fence. Dustin parks well away from the red abode, next to an old light blue pick-up.

Whispering revolver in hand, he cautiously approaches. He has one of his many M-16 assault rifles slung over his shoulder. Three wooden steps bring him to the porch. The boards creak under his weight, joining the rhythmic squeak of a porch swing that moves slightly in the breeze. Taking smaller steps doesn’t diminish the ruckus he makes on his way to the door. The old house just won’t allow him to sneak up on it, as if it’s all a part of its age-old security system.

The rusted hinges of the screen door squeal. He reaches for the knob on the inner door, but it’s locked. He tries knocking, though he figures if anyone is alive inside they have already been alerted to his presence. No answer. He doesn’t feel up to heading around the back to find another way in, since he already feels too exposed.

He considers the possibility of smashing a window, but doesn’t want to leave himself vulnerable when sticking his body parts into the house. Then he realizes he’s holding the key. The silent revolver is placed against the lock, and he winces as he pulls the trigger.

The penetration of the brass knob is louder than he had anticipated, but it effectively destroys the mechanism. The orb on the opposing side of the door falls to the floor and rolls across the hardwood. Dustin must wiggle the door to loosen the bolt from its locked position. Once the small block of steel is visible, he pries it away with his finger. Remaining on the porch, he pushes the door wide open, mimicking the stance he’s seen countless police officers take on television.

The old farmhouse invites him in with its warm and homey décor. Dark wood accentuates the shadows the lowlight casts into recesses, but it isn’t foreboding. Instead it looks cozy, safe. He doesn’t detect any movement. If the porch is any indication, he should be able to hear if someone is walking towards him. He slowly enters.

The front entry expands outward to his left, becoming a living room with rustic furnishings. An afghan covers the back of an antique sofa. He spots a coffee table that was once a small wooden wagon, and a couple of recliners. All the seats face a well-used hearth that serves as the room’s focal point. Above it hangs a large plasma TV. The Waltons got an upgrade.

Dustin ignores the staircase he passes that leads up to the second floor. There is something in the air that he finds out of place, a whooshing sound. The noise is slight and rhythmic, like the breathing of someone in a deep sleep. He follows it back to the front of the house and into the next room.

He explores a sitting room that probably was never intended for sitting. The old wooden chairs, with their elegantly carved high backs, look as if they would collapse if he sits in one too hard. Artifacts of a stranger’s existence must be ignored so he can locate the source of the noise. In the corner of this room, amid the shadows, Dustin finds a door that is out of place. The home is old and nearly everything in it is wood, but this portal is a thick sheet of plastic.

He inspects the dividing curtain. A seam runs down the middle, and the ends are held together by strong magnets. He pushes through the crease, letting it reseal itself with a series of clicks once he is on the other side. He is in a short hall made of the same material.

Bright bluish lights flash on overhead. He fights against blindness, but even when his eyes adjust he can’t see past the transparent walls due to the glare reflecting against their surface. The hall he is in has aseptic looking benches lining the right side. What is this place?

The other end of this tunnel has an identical, magnetically sealed curtain. Cupping his hands against the plastic film, he tries to see through, but all he sees on the other side is darkness. The barrel of his weapon leads the way as he pushes through the barrier. The blue illumination dims on its own, until the light abandons him all together.

Lingering in blindness, he tries to make shapes out in the dark. Shades of grey and black start to reveal themselves to him. A black rectangle is before him, which appears to be a table, and it’s set against a large shiny oval on the wall to his right. He is closer to the weird breathing sound, but above that he hears movement--slow steps coming closer and an odd rubbery sound.

“I need light.”

Lights flare on, as if the old house is answering his plea. He finds himself once again blinded for a few seconds, a few too long. He doesn’t see the owner of the powerful hands that seize him. His shoulders are gripped in strong vises of pain as the heavyweight takes him to the ground and robs him of his gun. Dustin falls back through the curtain, lying halfway in the short hall as his assailant’s mass crushes him.

Those peculiar blue lights flicker on again above him in the antechamber. Dustin tries to keep the invisible foe at bay, but can’t muster the strength. He feels the being’s giant head pressing against his cheek. Panic and fright give him a burst of power, and he shoves the contender away. The lights above eclipse the figure, keeping it an amorphous silhouette.

Dustin is losing his endurance, just like he lost his pistol when the attacker first laid hands upon him. He hears the heavy revolver slide across the floor beyond the plastic curtain. He struggles to keep the being away and roll to his left side. The enemy he fights is wearing an all-encompassing suit, like a deep sea diver, complete with helmet. The front plate is obscured by a sheen of condensation, making it impossible to tell if the person inside is male or female. The aggressor’s face thrashes inside the helmet, pressing against the glass plate, looking like raw meat tightly packaged in shrink wrap. It writhes, emitting a constant and maddening sound as the synthetic material rubs against itself.

Dustin sets his feet against the outfit that reminds him of a hazmat suit. He pushes with all of his might to get out of the being’s grasp, and unslings his rifle in one move.

Though he is aiming directly at the face plate, he hesitates. For all I know this person is alive and can help me. The condensation that clouds the glass has beaded, and droplets release their hold on the surface, running down with aid from gravity. Both Dustin and the spaceman are on their sides, but finally he can see clearly enough through the helmet to spy green, moldy flesh. So he takes his shot.

An explosion of blood fills the cramped space the zombie’s head has been contained in for so long. Then it lays inert until Dustin kicks the corpse away. His action causes the airtight suit to collapse, releasing months’ worth of built up gases created by decomposition directly into his face. The gust of putrid fumes makes Dustin’s gorge rise and his eyes water. He battles his nausea to flee the noxious odor, returning to the room he had lost his revolver in.

After wiping away tears in the now fully lit room, he sees no further threats. His gaze scans the floor for his silver gun. Everything around him is sterile white, from the floor to the ceiling with the exception of a china hutch that matches the house’s wooden motif, and a similarly normal dining table that is set against a wide oval window. Two places are set on the table, complete with cloth napkins, two wooden chairs, and a butter dish in the shape of a rooster resides between the settings.

Under the seat closest to him, he locates his pistol where it had been kicked during the struggle. He feels wiped out from the brawl with the spaceman zombie, and his knees buckle as he leans to retrieve his piece. His hands vibrate as he comes down from the adrenaline rush. His breaths come as gasps of exhaustion, and in time with the rhythmic aspirating sound he still has to locate.

The sturdy table aids him in rising to his feet, and it gives him stability on his wobbly legs.

From the corner of his eye he sees a sight that causes him to freeze in place. A figure stands beyond the oval of glass.

“Daddy?” asks the most radiant girl he has ever seen. “Where’s my dad?”

4

At some point following the plague, someone had sealed the town of Raleigh. Trees from the surrounding area had been felled and stacked to block access. Not only were the roads barred, the entire perimeter is enclosed by lumber. Lumber was once this town’s livelihood, and it very well may be what has kept them alive. Where they are now, the outcome still remains to be seen.

Dan and Carla are the last to arrive, joining seven men at the stack of wood that stands over ten feet high. Oz is among the assembled, layering duct tape from his work glove clad hands all the way to his elbows. He has parked Mater against the wall to serve as their ladder. The barrier is to be left intact.

“Town’s been scoped out,” Oz reports. “Not a creature is stirring.”

“Let’s do it,” Dan says.

The nine from New Castle ascend the beat-up tow truck’s boom in turn, being mindful not to scuff it as Oz warned. From the crested wall, they descend into the eerily calm town by way of the wrecker’s cable. If anyone is alive here, they must be lying low. Weapons at the ready, they advance toward the heart of town in a police line.

Crossing a clear-cut field, they spread out. Carla rebukes Dan’s attempt at distance, sticking close to him.

“Let me guess,” he says, feeling a bit emasculated. “Heather’s orders?”

“I promised to stay close to you,” she explains apologetically.

“The team isn’t as big as I expected.”

“I brought the best of the best. Each has an exemplary service record,” she explains.

“You’re keeping service records?”

“More like notes in a Strawberry Shortcake notebook,” she admits. “But, they’re solid.”

Despite the warm temperature this day, they all wear full sleeves made of heavy fabric. Some of them don hooded sweatshirts with the drawstrings pulled tightly to protect their ears.

They press on to Main Street, finding the business district consists of a small five and dime and a market. They can see a barbershop with a traditional striped pole. The team halts when they detect movement.

A lone figure hobbles across the street. It’s a female in a torn nighty. One strap dangles off her shoulder. Her direction alters when she sees the living, and her irregular pace quickens. There’s plenty of distance, so they hold their fire for now.

Carla inspects the woman through a small set of binoculars. She notes the paleness of her flesh. A bellow echoes through the town, interrupting what Carla wishes to say. The hollering belongs to a burly man who enters the scene. He charges the shambling figure, swinging a double edged battle axe. The wide blade is buried into her back. She falls to the ground where the man commences to savagely chop her head and torso, too busy to acknowledge the citizens of the nearby town that approach.

Half a dozen blows land in the corpse before Dan clears his throat loud enough to be heard by the man over his frenzy. The shock registers as this man scans the line of armed intruders. A full, thick beard covers half of his face, while blood is splattered over the rest of it. A broad smile forms behind his pelt. “Good marrow, travelers.”

“Huh?” Dan has to ask.

“That’s geek for good morning,” Oz offers, quickly wishing he hadn’t due to the embarrassment of knowing such information. “A friend of mine dragged me to a Renaissance fair once… I had to stop hanging out with him after that.”

“Well… A good marrow to you, sir,” Dan says. “We’re from New Castle. Just checking out nearby communities… Looks like this one gave you some trouble.”

“Nothing I could not handle.” The man sets the business end of his weapon on the pavement, leaning on the long handgrip. “I am Eric Shale, King of Raleigh.”

“Nice to meet you, Eric.” Dan extends his hand for a proper greeting only to have his forearm seized by the large man in a Viking-like ritual. “I’m Dan Williamson…”

“King of New Castle!” Carla announces to Dan’s chagrin.

“It’s more of a title…” he explains. “Like Mayor or Governor.”

“Or Emperor,” Carla chides.

“That’s an interesting axe,” Dan changes the subject. He points to the wide blade that drips a pool of blood onto the pavement. “Don’t you think, Oz?”

“It sure is a beauty.” He steps closer, towering over the large Eric. “May I?”

“Most certainly.” the King of Raleigh hands over his prized axe. “A fellow warrior…”

Oz, the once janitor, tosses the imposing weapon away the second he takes possession of it. “Zombies don’t bleed, asshole.”

The speechless monarch is instantly surrounded by armed men. He finds his words, “What manner of treachery is this?”

“She’s warm.” Carla reports sadly from her inspection of the body. The still woman’s wrists and ankles are raw from restraints. “And she smells like the sock.” The puzzled expressions she garners forces her to elaborate. “Guys, I have a teenaged brother going through full blown puberty. I know what the sock is.” She shivers from the memory of reaching under her brother’s bed for errant laundry and discovering a crusty tube sock. That was the day Sid learned to do his own wash.

“Good people, I implore you…” King Eric attempts.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dan warns. “Where do you call home?”

“Seriously, guys,” the man takes on a more modern manner of speaking, dropping his grandiose lilt. “You’re not the cops… I need to see my wife before you do whatever it is you’re planning. Just let me go.”

“You’re right. We aren’t the cops,” Dan admits. “But knowingly leaving you to continue as you are would make us no better than you.”

“The only reason to kill a fellow survivor is if they are about to become a zombie,” Oz tells him the rule. “Or if they’re already something much worse.”

The man looks pleadingly into the eyes of any who will listen to him. “I just want to see Bethany one last time.”

“Where is she?” Carla asks.

“Just let me go to her, alone. I will return.”

The team disregards the man’s promise. Oz scans the town for where the man might hang his crown. “Town hall?”

“The bed and breakfast is bigger.” Dan points out a quaint inn, which is the largest building in town. The man’s victim most likely escaped from there. “We’ll start there.”

Oz clasps the prisoner’s hands behind his back with one of his. King Eric is shoved into the establishment first, followed by his handler. Dan and Carla take the rear after sending the remaining soldiers to perform house to house searches in teams of two. If this multi-roomed business yields what they fear, the presences of so many men will only make the situation more tense.

The once cozy reception and meeting area is now a nightmarish throne room. Set in front of a massive fireplace is a glimmering seat of power forged from salvaged silverware and jewelry. Hanging like trophies from every wall are dozens of mounted heads, all human. Their faces writhe and twitch, still active and looking for food.

Dan and the others find what they feared; naked and chained to the floor are all the women from town that the king chose to keep. Carla soothes the captives that shy away from the sight of Dan, Oz, and their oppressor. She tells them that it is all over, and that they will be all right.

Dan gets on the radio, and his voice is flat from the horrors he’s seen. “Barbara, I need you to get Lindsey and a few other ladies to gather all the clothes they can spare. Then have them bring one of the buses to Raleigh. Yeah, it’s safe… No, you can’t come. I don’t want you seeing this.”

Oz keeps the mad king against the wall until Dan motions him to follow his lead in ascending the stairs to the second floor. They find more women in the guest rooms, lashed to antique beds. Though it pains the men, they must leave the women for female hands.

Dan’s enforcer, Oz, turns his revulsion into violence, taking the liberty of slamming Eric against anything that stands between them and the way back downstairs.

“Is there more up there?” Carla asks when the men return from the upper floor. Her eyes glisten with tears she refuses to let go of just yet.

“Yeah,” Dan answers, leading her to the outside steps so they can both get some fresh air, escape the musk of the B&B. “Help is on the way. You all right, Carla?”

The sheriff’s sorrow and sympathy becomes anger that she must vent. Her voice becomes a hushed rasp, “What the fuck is wrong with men? You never see women doing this sort of thing, depraved shit like this!”

Her rage released, she forces herself back into the den of sin, heading right up the stairs. Dan rejoins Oz and Eric, finding his enforcer’s massive hand holds the scruffy man’s face against the wall.

“We should get to the wall,” Dan tells his friend. “The ladies will be here…”

“Wait!” Carla calls from the second story before coming down fast. Her face is pale and haunted. “We have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?” Oz asks, not sure how this could possibly be worse.

“Some of the women up there have fresh stretch marks on their bellies.”

“Ow!” the king of this castle complains. “Too tight! Too tight!”

Oz squeezes the man’s head harder against the wall upon hearing the news and knowing what it means. He presses harder still as Carla describes the bloody linens and the unidentifiable matter that stains a laundry chute in the hall.

“Basement,” is the only word Dan can muster.

“I’ll check it out,” Oz proclaims in a growl. He drags his captive away with him, sticking his gloved hand into the man’s mouth. He uses the king’s jaw as a handle as he storms down the risers that lead to the sub-level. Eric’s feet dance in blind desperation to remain in step with the hulk.

“We’re here,” a voice calls over Dan’s radio. He tells the anonymous voice that he is on his way.

The team resumes their expeditionary mission of the town, and they’ve made it halfway down Main Street. Dan commandeers two expandable ladders from a hardware store to make scaling the wall easier.

The blue bus idles next to Mater. Upon seeing Dan on top of the wall, the cavalry begins to exit. The man is happy to see Barbara hadn’t talked Lindsey into letting her tag along, but his stomach drops when he sees his wife emerge. The place is safe, but he doesn’t like the idea of her seeing something as horrific as what is in store for her.

The king lends a helping hand to the women. He embraces Heather tightly, though he would have preferred it if she had stayed away from Raleigh, but he is happy to hold her at the moment. He walks the volunteers to the B&B, warning them of what’s inside and explaining what he wants to happen. He needs the captives freed, clothed, and transported immediately. They can come back for effects at another time should they wish it. They are to be temporarily housed at the Williamson ranch, since it is far enough from the heart of town that they won’t be disturbed. Counseling will certainly be offered.

Deep bellows of pain escape the quaint inn when Dan opens the door again.

Heather catches her breath from shock. “Oh my god!”

“That’s just Oz,” Dan assures.

“Is he all right?”

“Oz? Yeah, Oz is fine.”

Carla steps outside since her backup has arrived. She looks emotionally drained and in need of a break. Leaning against the façade, she sadly reports, “Bethany isn’t in there.”

The men who have been out searching homes and businesses return. They didn’t turn up anyone alive, not even zombies. Just bodies, all dispatched in a similar grisly fashion as the lady on the street.

“The way he spoke of her, I’m sure she’s alive,” Dan asserts.

“There’s more homes out there, deeper down the cross streets,” Carla suggests.

“I want a bigger group before we start something like that.”

Oz emerges from the building, wiping blood from his gloves with a pillowcase. He focuses on this task with meticulous care as if it is important to erase what has transpired in the now quiet basement. He can’t meet anyone’s eyes at the moment.

“How bad was it?” Dan asks.

The answer comes from the look Oz gives in return. Very. “It gets worse, actually… I know where Bethany is.”

5

If one were to travel down the main drag of Raleigh and continue deep into the woods, they would find old logging roads that intersect. They would also find a large trailer park completely enclosed by chain-link that once housed many of the loggers and their families, but now houses hundreds of walking corpses.

“He keeps his wife in there?” Carla asks.

“That one in the middle, surrounded by the wooden fence.” Oz points out a hunter green trailer, the only one with a stockade style fence enclosing it.

“He’s been leading a double life, living out two fantasies,” Dan shakes his disbelieving head, his voice sounding far away. “Heroic husband by day, part time Caligula whenever the mood strikes him.”

As far as they can surmise, Eric simply lured the dead into the park and closed the gate. He may have even used the winter to move them. The rest of the citizens were either killed or imprisoned. His wife would look out over the buttress enforced barrier and see nothing but death. As long as she kept quiet she would be all right--an unwitting submissive.

“She’s going to be devastated when she hears the truth,” Carla says softly.

“We aren’t going to tell her,” Dan amends.

“We have to. She has a right to know what he was doing.”

“I agree completely,” he admits. “Just not now. Finding out that the ‘supply runs’ her hubby went out on were just an excuse to rape their neighbors would more than devastate her. It’ll kill her.”

“So what do we do?”

“Clean her yard for her. Get rid of the dead. We’ll let her stay here. I want her as far from that man’s harem as possible. It’ll just make matters worse if they recognize her. We’ll have soldiers stationed here to hold down the fort.”

“Looks like he made a tunnel using sections of concrete tubing,” Oz says. “Tight fit for a guy his size.”

“I’m so glad he’s dead,” Carla says, unable to get over Eric’s crimes.

“He’s not dead,” Oz reveals to the surprise of his team. It was no shock to them when he returned from the basement alone. “He passed out… Death’s coming for him all right, it’s just gonna be a long and agonizing wait.”

The news of the king’s suffering enables Carla to return them to the task at hand. “I’m the smallest. I’ll go in and check on her.”

“She’s armed, no doubt,” Dan says.

“Eric probably told her to shoot anyone, or thing, that enters that wasn’t him,” Oz adds.

Long range weapons and plenty of ammo are retrieved from the vehicles. Dan can see this will be no mere matter of ‘shooting fish in a barrel,’ because these dead are much faster than he has seen, and they’re already attracted to the living beyond the fence. The corpses move in a hurried gallop fueled by starvation. Weathering and sunlight has reduced their clothing to rough drab rags, gritty and stained by frequent battles lost to gravity. The reanimated throng slams against the barrier, rattling the steel violently.

Dan and his team open fire on the thrashing mob. One by one the dead fall from the carefully aimed shots. The horde manically shakes the cage that holds them. So feverishly that their faces batter the crisscrosses of metal, as if they are desperate to get through before their number is up and a bullet shows their brains the light of day. But they are simply crazed by the hunger.

“Let’s give them some space,” Dan suggests. The concrete used to secure the posts of the enclosure is starting to wiggle from the earth. More dead join the barrage, pressing against their neutralized peers that are pinned against the barrier, unable to fall. The zombies unknowingly use the fallen as cover. The added weight causes the blockade to lean outwards where they are conglomerating.

The salvo continues as the living take steps backwards. Failure of the wall is inevitable, and they need to thin the horde before that takes place. One of the posts is freed from the ground causing the steel mesh to collapse at an obtuse angle that slowly becomes more acute with each passing second.

“Reloading!” one person calls out so that another will cover his area. The living continue to bound back in this fashion, but the organization isn’t helpful. The dead are too many, and now climbing over their brethren in a frenzy.

The zombies are in such a rush to get over the leaning fence, their faces are pressed against the raised loops of metal wire. During decomposition, the body’s connective tissue liquefies and causes slippage, the skin hangs loosely on the flesh like a formfitting sack. The galvanized arcs of the fence have a cheese grater effect on the unfeeling zombie flesh, sloughing it off in gelatinous slices.

Carla slings her rifle in frustration when it jams, opting for the weapon on her other shoulder. The one she affectionately calls her ‘nine iron.’ The sheriff begins to unload controlled bursts from the AK-47 Dan had given her before they had even met. A kit from Crazy Joe’s gun shop was all she needed to make the illegal conversion to full-auto. Having seen it done in countless movies, she has taped two banana clips together to make reloading a breeze.

The milk jug exercise regimen prescribed by his uncle has done Dan’s body good, training him to drop simultaneous targets as he had seen Bruce do on the range many times. It isn’t enough. No matter how many rounds the team expels, more keep coming, only adding to the fence’s decline.

A series of metallic snaps accompanies the release of the fence from its posts, as the collective weight of the dead takes the entire horde to ground level. The unfortunate ghouls on the ends are sent in the air like balls in a schoolyard game of parachute. Battered and unbalanced, they are relentless, climbing out from under one another. The zombies fight to get to their feet so they can pursue the living.

The team doubles their retreat. They fire upon the deceased, but the dead are rising faster than they can be put down. Brief windows of safety are enabling the corpses to gain ground as members of the firing squad must reload. Their strategy of covering one another’s zone during the seconds it takes to switch out a magazine and breach the first round isn’t enough. A swarm is forming.

“This is getting pointless!” Carla yells. One of her hurried steps backwards locates a protruding root in the dirt road, it trips her. Luckily, Oz is there to catch her.

“You’re right,” Dan concurs, chambering a round into each of his 9mms. “We need high ground. One at a time, peel off and make for the wall!”

Carla takes the cue, anticipating the plan. They need shooters on the wall, but also need to keep the dead interested. She commands the first to go. “Pete!”

The first to fall back empties his rifle before turning tail. The team dwindles as the sheriff names the subordinates in succession to mount the second front. Dan, Carla, and Oz remain to lure the dead. Each frenzied ghoul has a unique gait that causes them to bob in erratic patterns over the rutted road. The living must learn quickly and lead their shots slightly, as if duck hunting. They can’t fire where the enemy’s head is, but where it will be a split second after pulling the trigger.

“Carla, go,” Dan says.

“I promised Heather. You go,” she refuses.

“Oz.”

“Naw, I’m good,” the large man says between shots from his semi-automatic shotgun. He opted for his Benelli once the proximity got too close. The discharge falls handfuls of them in a single blast, like a magic eraser.

Dan considers their location--halfway to the town and getting too close for comfort. “On three, we all bound back to King Eric’s den.”

After Dan says ‘three’ they dash back to the horrible monarch’s castle. They have more space, and must switch back to the longer ranged rifles while continuing to back pedal. It doesn’t take long before the zombie mob is in range of the shooters on the wall, who rain down cover fire.

The bait can breathe easier on their way to the ladder, but the undead citizens of Raleigh never falter in their desperate quest for food, though their neighbors fall around them.

On top of the barrier of fallen timber, the entire team can relax into a true ‘fish in a barrel’ situation, finishing off the horde from above.

Dan has to complain to Carla about one thing, “I thought you said this place was safe!”

6

She’s a jewelry box ballerina trapped inside a snow globe, Dustin thinks. The girl’s name is Eve. She is seventeen years old and has been kept from the world since birth. Born with Severe Mixed Immunodeficiency, the slightest illness can kill her. Where many with milder forms of her affliction can be helped by bone marrow transplants so their bodies can manufacture the necessary immunities, she can’t. The only way such a procedure could help her is if the donation was from an identical twin. Since none exist, the syngeneic transplant is impossible and she must live in isolation, protected from germs and viruses. She tells him that the expensive supplies were bestowed upon her family by generous donations, and she actually lives in a large RV that connects to the house. Being a proud man, her father had declined the doublewide prefabricated home that was first offered to them in favor of the mobile living quarters. This way he could show his little girl the world, at least the parts of it accessible by road.

“My mom died early on, when the dead first started walking. My father passed away during the winter,” she tells him. Tears flow down her cheeks, and Dustin wishes he could wipe away for her. “He went out to get me a Christmas present. I told him not to go, but he insisted. He said it was safe since the things were frozen… He forgot that the stores would be warm.”

She looks at her dad where he lay, half in the antechamber used to decontaminate people and objects using UV light. The short hall doesn’t make things completely sterile, but clean enough to be outside the seals of her airtight door and shorten the lengthy process required to give Eve an item. Treating them with ethylene oxide at 140 degrees for days now only takes hours.

“As soon as he was bitten, he began to rush around to make sure I had everything I would need for a while. After everything was sterilized, he put his suit on so he could hold me one last time. I begged him to stay, but he couldn’t. He said he would be one of them soon. He hoped to be able to get out of the house before dying… He didn’t make it.

“I’m sort of glad for that. I liked the company. But it’s better that he’s at rest now.” The delicate girl sniffs back her sorrow. Eve gives Dustin a brave smile. “So how have you survived?”

7

Gloved hands drag the bodies by their ankles; the survivors make piles along the road on their way back to the trailer park. A few stragglers are found, crawling corpses that still have the hope of eating human flesh but have arrived late for dinner. They dig into the earthen street with their cold fingers and stumps to no avail.

“Ma’am,” Dan calls to Eric’s widow over the high fence. “It’s safe to come out now.”

“Where’s my husband?” she asks through a crack, after she opens door.

“I’m sorry, the dead got him… He’s gone,” Dan tells the woman, who begins to break down.

Dan has no idea how to console Bethany. Words escape him, and the seconds feel like an eternity of awkwardness. He looks to Carla for suggestions, but she just shrugs while biting her nails. The sheriff still thinks it’s wrong to leave the woman in the dark about her husband’s deplorable and inhumane actions.

Between sniffs and wet sobs, Bethany speaks. “He was so brave… My Eric was a hero.”

At that, Carla storms away.

Oz mutters next to Dan, “Not much of a pain tolerance for a hero.”

“Not helpful,” Dan whispers. “Bethany, Eric’s last wish was for us to come and get you.”

The use of her name coaxes the woman from her home and onto the porch. She shields her eyes from the sun, having not seen it for so long. She’s a frail slip of a lady in a long nightgown. Dan tells her the dead are gone, but that she should stay put until the cleanup is over as a precaution. He feels bad for her, but she must stay inside for a bit longer, at least until her husband is really dead.

After being doused with accelerant, the piles become pyres, casting long ropes of black smoke into the air. Dan asks Oz to call for some help while he and the other men pull bodies from the buildings on Main Street. There are many homes in the woods they need to clear out, and more corpses to dispose of. Soon King Eric will become one more for the fire.

Carla is in her Attack Track with her head resting on the steering wheel. She doesn’t stir as Oz radios New Castle. “You all right?”

“Just pondering things,” she says. Then she raises her head and stares at the massive wall of timber that encloses Raleigh from the world. “You’re a guy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So why aren’t you and all the other men from town out raping bitches?”

“I can only speak for myself on this one. I’ve just never really had a hankering for ‘bitch raping.’ I think it might be an acquired taste, like liverwurst… maybe it’s just how I was raised. At least we stopped him.”

“It doesn’t erase it. It still happened. Probably happening somewhere else right now… It makes me sick.”

Oz feels the same way. He’s never had a violent thought about a woman, not even about his wife who left him, taking their son in tow. He has had plenty of impulses about the bastard that stole his family, however. Never about the woman he married, pledged his undying love to.

Carla has been after Oz to have a drink with her for some time now, and she looks like she could use one now more than ever. He believes they both could.

“The kids are doing that camp thing tonight. Camp Zombatombie… Some pajam-boree. It’s a Barbara thing… Perhaps, we can cash in that rain check? Have a few?”

“I gotta pick Becka up from at the station when we’re done here… After?”

“Sounds good.” He nods. “It’s a date.”

8

Dustin’s recounting of his experiences among the dead are a feat of storytelling. He omits many details, and exaggerates the time he spent in the army. He tells Eve that in the country’s time of need he had ‘stepped up to the plate.’ He spins yarns about the lives he saved while the base fell to the enemy around them.

Eve listens with rapt attention. The wide-eyed young woman has never been outside, has never been lied to or known dishonesty or subterfuge. She is pure and uncorrupted by society.

“I know how you can help me!” she says excitedly, obviously figuring that such an altruistic person would be happy to be given a task. “My air is scrubbed by four filters. There are two in here that I can do myself, but there are two on my roof that are overdue to be changed. It’s getting a bit stuffy in here.”

“Yeah!” He readily agrees to aid the pretty damsel in distress. “Just tell me how.”

Eve directs him to grab the walkie talkie her father has clipped to his suit and go to the back yard; her required supplies are all stored in the barn. Eager to please, Dustin rushes out the front door, racing around the dwelling. On his way to the old weathered barn, he glances over his shoulder to the backside of the home where the lovely girl resides. The sight of the enormous RV slows his stride.

Eve’s father may have refused the double-wide, but they were given far more than a mere recreational vehicle. The girl’s private abode is a custom made semi-trailer. The impressive mobile home sits on a foundation of radials.

The barn yields an assortment of supplies one wouldn’t expect to find judging from the outside. Instead of the usual farm fare, Dustin’s gaze dances over pallets containing tanks and jugs of sterilization fluids and gases, replacement gaskets, protective clothing, and a variety of filters. Everything is packaged together in great supply and labeled. The adhesive endorsements not only tell what the items are, they also declare that they were donated by the Rosie Parson’s Project.

She had told him what size and permeation to look for, so he grabs what is needed and runs back to the house. The combined width of the rectangular filters strains his fingers. They are the size of boogie boards and he must hold them to his side so as not to kick them with his knees. As he returns, he searches for the girl through the windows of her solitary home. The attention to detail is remarkable, and the trailer looks like an actual house. It even matches the rustic charm of the larger residence.

He finally spots her in the farthest left window, and they wave to one another. The radio she told him to acquire squawks on his belt. “Hello, Dustin. It’s Eve.”

That’s so cute, he thinks. Anyone else saying such a thing may have earned a sarcastic remark from him. “I’m here.”

“The ladder is around this way.” She points, indicating he must round the next corner.

Dustin climbs a white steel ladder that is attached to the home, next to an ivy covered lattice. Eve appears in a window beside him, parting the white curtains to wave. He returns the gesture with the stack of filters and almost falls. Smiling through his embarrassment, he crests the slightly pitched roof.

“I’m up.”

“Good,” her voice cheers. “The intake should be somewhere up there.”

“Ok.” He surveys the shingled surface, but the only structure he sees on the roof is a steeple. He cautiously approaches the protrusion, since the slight angle he walks on worries him.

The steeple is in fact the objective; the construction shrouds the air filtration unit he seeks. “I found the intake.”

“That’s great!” Eve says back.

Dustin awaits further instructions. He inspects the humming device, and then looks around the property. He can’t help but notice the girl inside hasn’t told him what to do yet. “Eve, how do I do this?”

“I don’t know.” Her words break his heart. “My dad always did it.”

Uh oh, he thinks. He opens the steeple’s false wall panel and inspects the grey box within, but finds no instructions. The filters also get a frantic look over. The packaging states that the unit needs to be turned off before any maintenance can be performed. “I think we need to shut it off to change this out, right?”

“Yup,” she confirms. After a few seconds of searching for a kill switch, Dustin hears he voice again. “Oops! I do that on my end.”

The units droning ceases, and the gentle breeze it creates by sucking in air disappears.

He finds all the tools needed for the job stored behind the false wall. I can’t half-ass this, he thinks to himself as he follows what the packaging tells him to do, first by removing the external filter, and then the internal. The workspace is tight, but he gets them replaced and double checks each one before proceeding to the next. The final steps calls for the device to run in reverse for a full minute, then Eve is instructed to utilize her controls.

Dustin counts the seconds, putting the word ‘potato’ between each one. “How’s that? Better?”

“Much! Thank you, Dustin.”

“Not a problem,” he tells her while he crab crawls to the edge of the roof with the empty packaging.

Dustin had seen spare units in the barn, along with several of everything the girl may need. An entire new enclosure could be built from the spare parts. She has redundancies and backups to last her a lifetime, and from what she had told him about her condition, he knows that’s usually a very short span.

9

“He was just being nice,” Carla tells Becka. “He saw I was all tore up over what went on in that town and asked me for a drink.”

“You don’t know that.” Becka consoles her friend as she sets a playlist to fill the dead air now that she has signed off for the day. “Tonight you should just tell him how you feel. Lay it all out.”

“I don’t know…”

“Be aggressive.”

From his first days in New Castle, Carla knew Oz was different. She saw that under his steel exterior was a great guy. She couldn’t think of many men who would willfully take on the task of caring for and raising two dozen kids that aren’t even his own. They had offered the man an out, foster services. They promised to relocate each boy and girl to a good home with suitable parents. Oz said he could handle it, even volunteered the male nurse, David, he had arrived with or the task as well.

“Last night I asked him to grab dinner with me,” Carla says. “He said he had to help David move. That wouldn’t take too long. The guy can’t have that much shit, right?”

Eye contact between them is quickly broken off by Becka, who then fiddles with knobs and dials on the sound room’s control board. Carla knows the station is broadcasting a recording, and that her friend's arbitrary actions are just a show. “You know something.”

“Me? I don’t know anything.” The girl nervously laughs. “You should see my SAT scores.”

“Spill it, Becka.”

Becka’s and Carla lock gazes. Although she was able to easily fool her old classmates into thinking of her as just another absent minded cheerleader, an arrogant A-lister in their minute little universe, she can’t fool Carla. They have become true friends, and there’s no tricking her. “Oz was with me last night.”

##

‘Living with survival’ is the name of a support group, a safe place where people can talk about their experiences beyond the wall. Folks can expunge guilt they may harbor over out-living their loved ones, or confess the drastic means they had taken in the name of survival. Becka runs the group. It was actually her idea, having her own demons in need of exorcism. Though no oath was taken, she keeps the group anonymous. Everything one may hear from another in the circle is to be kept strictly confidential. Becka broke her own vow by telling Carla of Oz’s attendance, but was able to retain everything the man has shared.

Carla promises herself that she won’t pry as she knocks on the man’s door. He had given her an overview of his time out there, just not the whole picture. Oz answers the door in a pair of grey sweats; she had taken the time to get cleaned up and changed as well. She stands before him in jeans and a braless tank top, her hair is still damp from her shower.

“Hey,” he greets his guest. “Come on in.”

“Gladly,” she enters, squeezing past him where he holds the door open.

This is the first time she has been in Oz’s house without the kids. It’s surprisingly immaculate. No toys strewn about or spills, as she had encountered on the previous visits. Above all, it’s quiet. With twenty-four children, Oz and David had been given one of the largest homes in town, second only to the Williamson ranch.

“With the kids gone for the night, and David no longer here, I would have probably wound up drinking alone,” he tells her.

“Me too,” she says. Her brother Sid is helping Barbara with the little campers and is also gone for the night. “We might as well drink alone together.”

They sit in silence, watching the fire in the fireplace, intermittingly sipping their Jack and Cokes.

Carla speaks first, “Crazy day, huh?”

“Yeah.” The large man nods. “Really fucked up situation. It makes me think…”

Carla coaxes him. “About?”

“After I was done with that monster…” He stares into his beverage, having trouble opening up without the safety of his group. “I realized that I’m no better than he is. I’m a monster too.”

“No you’re not.”

“Who am I to be a moral compass? I saw what he had done to those… I broke every bone he didn’t need to live simply because I didn’t like what he was doing… Because I could and no one could stop me.”

“Your options were limited; death, imprisonment, or exile. Killing that man was the most humane thing you could have done… Well, maybe not your method. Those of us that remain seem to be divided into two categories; sinners and saints. We’re the heroes.”

He’s used the same sentiment before, but can’t quite justify his actions today. “The world was a pretty sick place before it fell apart, but what I saw in that basement… I needed every last painful breath he took to be a reminder of what he did. Make him die watching those reanimated newborns he had tossed down that laundry chute squirm.”

“It’s getting late,” Carla says, standing.

“I’ll show you out,” Oz begins to rise.

“No need.” She waves off the custom, taking Becka’s advice about being aggressive. “I didn’t say I was leaving. I’m not planning on getting much sleep tonight, and I hope you aren’t.”

Carla straddles the man in his recliner, kissing him deeply. The two decide to take a break from being saints.

10

Dustin and Eve share a meal together, separated by a pane of glass. The girl has set a small table on her side of the oval window that gives the illusion of a nice family setting once it is aligned with the longer dining table. This is how she always ate with her parents.

A similar window is found in the adjoining room, the kitchen. The girl has her own smaller cooking space that allowed her and her mother to prepare meals together. Dustin had to pass through another UV vestibule to reach the kitchen. Among the standard appliances and charm is a large flat screen television and a pair of comfortable recliners that enabled the family to watch TV and movies together.

The two watch a movie with the lights dimmed to reduce the glare on the transparent barrier between them. Eve falls asleep before long, and Dustin just watches the angel for several minutes. Curiosity pulls him from his vigil, though. Since he expects to be staying here for a while, he figures he should get to know the place.

The same rustic motif is found on the upper level, without the accents of science fiction. Modest bedrooms and a full bath all contrast the downstairs in their advanced state of disarray. The sink and vanity of the bathroom are splattered with old blood; the fancy decorative bar of soap in the dish nearby is encrusted by it as well. A ring of grime stretches around the tub walls.

The king sized bed in the master suite is unmade and smells musty. Dustin kicks his way through piles of old laundry to get to an antique dresser. He wants to find some clean clothes, anything but the rough fatigues in his car. But he has no luck finding a thing to wear, except clothes that belonged to Eve’s late mother. All her dad’s garments are buried in the dirty laundry piles.

I could do some wash, I think. Dustin has never done a load of wash before--not once in his nineteen years of life. Since moving out of his parents’ home, he had just brought bags of laundry to his mother every week. The arrangement was perfect, because not only did he get his clothes cleaned and folded he also got a free meal. But now he figures he has many chores in store for him. If it means having a safe place to stay, and getting to spend his time with the beautiful captive angel, he’ll do anything. He will protect her and make this place a home.

11

She’s singing. Dan furrows his brow. Why is she singing? He watches his sheriff hum to herself in the office, noticing an extra bounce in her step this morning. She moves swiftly to the coffee pot upon seeing him enter and asks if he’d like a cup. She never does this. Typically, Dan is the one offering to grab her a cup as he pours his own.

“I added some cinnamon to the grounds,” she says with a wide smile.

Dan has to admit it does smell really good, but he must ask, “What’s gotten into you?”

“Oz!” she blurts, unable to contain the news.

The spontaneous confession causes Dan to inhale his coffee and have a coughing fit, but he manages to choke out, “What?”

“Oz got into me!” She beams. “Last night!”

Now wearing his beverage, Dan recovers as Carla goes on about the events of her evening after they left Raleigh. He is thankful that the words are escaping her at such a high rate of speed he can’t fully track the details. Fearing he may actually become privy to things he will never be able to unheard, he has to stop her. “Whoa! Take a break. Why are you telling me all this?”

“I have to tell someone! Becka’s at the radio station and your wife is up the hill. Come on, you’re my platonic, married guy-friend. You’re practically a woman. I need girl talk!”

Dan isn’t entirely sure how to take this. He clears the last of the coffee from his windpipe while waving her away. “Go! Go up the hill and find Heather.”

“Really? I can have the day off?”

“Get the fuck outta here.” Dan dismisses her with a laugh. He does charge her with one task as she rushes out the door. “Check on the Raleigh woman while you’re up there.”

“You’re the best boss ever!” She thanks him from the door, grinning from ear to ear.

In the schoolyard, the children are playing zombie tag with Nerf guns. In the coming weeks, those who have their guardian’s consent will be brought to the range to use real firearms and learn gun safety. The ‘infected’ children hobble after the ‘survivors,’ who run while trying to score a headshot. Some lay on the grass ‘dead’ from wounds sustained by the foam ammunition. In order to keep the game going, the kids laying prone need only to count to fifty in order to cure themselves and rejoin the living. If only it was that easy, Dan thinks as he strolls closer.

Games such as this have replaced freeze tag and stuck in the mud. The cautionary advice ‘don’t talk to strangers’ has been replaced by ‘if they don’t say good day, just run away.’ The townsfolk have gotten into the habit of acknowledging each other while passing on the street, lest they be mistaken for the walking dead. It’s became a common fear after an overzealous sentry gunned down an inebriated man one morning. Since then the consumption of alcohol is only available in moderate quantities.

The second his sheriff had left for the hill, Dan decided to take this walk. He had seen Oz near the playground on his way into the office. The large man is still there on the bench, watching his kids play.

Dan sits next to him. “So, I hear you’ve decided to court my little girl.”

The big man laughs at the over-protective dad act. “She told you?”

“I had to send her away before she gave me too many details. Congrats, I’m happy for you guys.”

“I’m very happy.” Oz smiles. “It’s weird. I’m not used to the feeling. Now I got all these kids and a great girl. I think I like it.”

##

“Oh my god!” Carla hugs Heather who has just shared her own news. “A baby! I’m so excited!”

“We don’t know when yet.” Heather tries to calm her friend. “It’s just talk right now.”

“At least tell me you two are practicing.”

“We don’t need practice, Carla.” Heather chuckles. “And, what about you and Oz?”

“I was a little rusty at first, but after we got…”

“Not that!” Heather swats Carla with a towel she just folded. “I was talking about motherhood. Are you ready to take on twenty-four kids?”

“As long as it’s these kids. They’re full grown, well-mannered, and house broken. Best of all they’re a great bunch and they’re his.”

“Could we be hearing wedding bells?”

“Whoa! Slow the fuck down!” Carla waves her hands to end the topic. “So far we only know that we’re compatible in one area. I’d like to explore that particular area for a while before doing anything drastic, like marrying the guy.”

The ladies talk over coffee. They continue to catch up on each other’s lives, since they haven’t had much time together in the past few weeks. They even delve into the town gossip, anything but what lurks on the floor above. They had checked on the refugees; the women say they are fine and relieved to be free, but they’ve been through a lot, suffered horrors most wouldn’t wish on their worst enemies. The scars of the ordeal show in their eyes, and it is evident in their voices. The memories will haunt them for the rest of their lives.

12

Though they never let it interfere with their work, Oz and Carla’s budding romance becomes the talk of the town, and they have become the IT couple of New Castle.

Not too far away, another love blossoms between Dustin and Eve, albeit one-sided. Nevertheless, yet it pains him to be so close and feel so strongly for someone so radiant that he can never touch, he stays. He takes care of her. Never before has he ever wanted to be burdened by another soul, but now he welcomes it. The urges that torment him to enter her enclosure without the protective wear are fleeting and easily overcome.

Eve has been reading to him from the bible. It puzzles him that coming from anyone else’s lips these scriptures would be nonsense, worthy of snarky comments and furious eye rolling, but with her he is patient. Her recitations actually, sort of, make sense to him and are very beautiful. He has never been a religious person, and often referred to such practices as ‘bullshit.’ He once thought that the vast majority of spiritual people were just following it because they were told to when they were younger, that they don’t truly believe and it’s more of a learned behavior from their parents. He used to call them sheep, but now he’s becoming one of the flock.

Dustin is on the road, on his way back from gathering food for his lady fair. The former man of the house had slaughtered the farm’s livestock already, so Eve has plenty of food still but mentioned wanting something sweet. He didn’t hesitate to hop into his Camaro to fetch her heart’s desire.

Dustin scrolls through his eclectic playlist, but none of it sounds good to him at the moment. The driver disconnects the slim music device from the car’s sound system, allowing it to pick up broadcasts. Past experience should have him hearing static, but instead he hears a pleasant female voice.

“… That was Ozzy Osbourne’s Crazy Train. Coming up is more classic rock, followed swiftly by my daily apology to Mrs. McCleary. Before we get to the music, I have an announcement: New Castle’s first and only band, the Revenants--that means ravenous flesh eaters… don’t feel bad I had to look it up myself… are looking for a guitarist. Those interested should drop by their garage on the farthest side of town to try out.

“In honor of this, here’s a solid block of AC/DC. And for those about to rock, I salute you.”

Dustin floors the accelerator to get home to Eve. Though the band that thunders from his speakers had earned him many speeding tickets in the past, he barely registers them. His mind is set on telling his girl the great news.

The car skids to a stop by the front porch, and he leaves Eve’s candy on the floor, where it had flown during his hasty parking job. He has forgotten the very reason he had gone out. He tells the girl everything he heard on the radio and his plans in one incoherent stream.

Eve is stunned. From the jumble of words she discerns the gist. “You want to leave?”

“Yes!” He paces the dining room, unable to stand still. “But I want you to come too. Then we can have it all. We’ll be together with more people, and I can play music.”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to leave my home.”

“You won’t. Not the part you live in, right?”

“The people who donated my trailer sent my dad to a special school to learn how to drive the big truck. It’s very complicated.”

“I can do it,” he tells her. “I’ll drive slow. According to the map, New Castle is so close.”

Dustin’s eagerness blinds him to the dangers, as well as the girl’s fears. Eve’s voice falters. “I can’t blame you for wanting to go, but I can’t. If you do decide to leave, please promise you’ll visit me. I like taking to you, and without your help I will die.”

The sorrow in her voice anchors him to reality, and he questions leaving. Is it worth it? They aren’t a couple. Neither has said ‘I love you’ to the other. Dustin does feel it in his heart, though he isn’t certain she reciprocates. Lying awake at night he had pondered whether she is even capable. Perhaps she’s too innocent to love another being who isn’t family.

Eve quietly dismisses herself from the oval of glass to gaze out the window that overlooks the grave Dustin had dug for her father, right next to her mom’s. Together they had seen the country, but always came home to roost. Though almost literally a stone’s throw away, New Castle might as well be on the moon. She sees Dustin pass by her field of vision on his way to the truck.

##

How hard can it be? Dustin thinks, struggling to raise his 5’4” body up into the semi’s cab. The man who had once driven his family to the Grand Canyon in this very seat was a much larger man than he is. He finds himself dwarfed by the massive vehicle, like a child in his parents’ car. He can’t reach the pedals when seated against the backrest, so he must scooch forward to the edge just to see over the hood. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he is certain he can do this. He will drive this rig to New Castle and live the dream.

Behind the trailer that contains his love is a hitch for towing a car. The height of the setup would be too big for the travelers to take to the store or even through a drive-thru. He plans to drag his Camaro like a caboose.

“Dustin,” Eve’s pleading voice emanates from the walkie-talkie. “Please don’t do this.”

“You’re gonna love it there,” he assures her. “If not, we can always come back.”

“All my supplies are here.”

“I can come back for anything you need,” he reasons. “Plus, they may have a doctor. That’d be a good thing, right?”

“Ok” She agrees with trepidation. “But I think you should go there first and get…”

All he heard was ‘ok.’ After that one simple word he was off to get his car to hitch to their ride. His handset is still in the cab. “…someone from there to come and help you, Dustin… Dustin?”

13

“Come in, New Castle.” The radio in Carla’s office relays these words from someone patrolling beyond the walls.

“Go ahead, Pete,” Carla says into the mouthpiece of her headset.

“We have movement,” his voice is a harsh whisper.

“Where’s your location?”

“I’m on the floor… of my car…”

She doesn’t hear the beep that indicates he’s released the ‘talk’ button; the tone effectively saves them from the monotony of saying ‘over’ all the time. Carla becomes as still as possible as she listens to the man’s jagged breathing and blasts of intense wind. Between the breaths, she can hear the dead.

From the choir of mournful moans, she knows the horde is vast. She holds her own breath. All she can do is listen, and wait for him to come back over the line. She assumes the man is keeping the button down to prevent her voice from drawing the zombies upon him. That’s good, Pete… Smart.

“They’ve passed… There’s just too many of them. I tried to lure them away, but they kept turning… They’re coming home.”

14

The two oval windows attach to the home with rubber gaskets and tight clamps; they are a part of the trailer that contains the fragile Eve. The habitat is switched to auxiliary power, so its life support can draw electricity from the truck when it is running, and from a combination of solar panels and generators until an external source can be tapped. The farmhouse is powered by the dam, as is New Castle. Dustin isn’t concerned. No stopping us now.

The grumble of the truck’s engine is a premature triumph, for he struggles to find first gear before he slowly pulls away from the house, like a shuttle detaching from a space station. Dustin has to turn around in the backyard and navigate the bumpy terrain of the property to get to the road.

Eve is caught off guard. She hadn’t expected they’d be departing so soon. She fights the jostling to walk through her traveling home like a person performing the same act during a tremor. Every step she tries to take lands off its mark due to the shaking floor.

She finally makes it to one of the seats she is supposed to strap herself into during travel. She is situated by one of her windows, but is too scared to look out. She cinches her straps as tight as possible and closes her eyes just as tight. She tries to relax and trust the man driving, the man she thinks she may love.

15

“Hey,” Oz pops his head into the sheriff station. “Lunch?”

The troubled look he receives from Carla tells him they won’t be heading to Slim’s. His girlfriend’s eyes are haunted, and they desperately hold back tears. “Patrols are calling in from all over…”

Carla points to a map on the wall. Small pins have been stuck to indicate the reports. He knows immediately what these indicate; the dead are migrating too close for comfort.

“They’re coming our way from every direction. Pete called from the southwest… He just stopped to piss and they got him. He tried to bait them away from home, but they’re just hell bent on coming here. They’re locked in on us. He shot himself.”

“Fuck,” Oz murmurs. “What can I do?”

“I’m pulling back all the cars. I have them coming in by the eastern bridge, since the dead seem to be thinner in numbers there. Becka’s still at the station. Can you get her?”

“Sure thing.” He kisses her cheek. “Relax. We’ll get through this.”

Oz exits alone and is confronted by countless eager faces. “Where’s Carla?”

“She’s busy, kids,” he tells his brood sadly. “Change of plans I’m afraid. I have to go out and get Auntie Becka.”

They ask if they can come, though they know they aren’t allowed outside the walls. Oz simply tells them ‘no’ as he scans the faces of bystanders for one he trusts. “David! I need you to take the kids.”

The man who had reluctantly taken on partial guardianship of the children, volunteered by Oz, gets out of his compact hybrid. “I was actually planning on…”

“This is serious. Please?”

Oz is neither the type of man to say please, nor is he one to shirk his parental responsibilities. David nods in agreement, knowing it must be a matter of life or death.

16

Driving the rig is a lot harder than Dustin anticipated, and his first attempt at shifting resulted in a horrendous grinding sound and a stalling of the engine. He keeps it in first now that the steel snake is winding down the road at a crawl. Dustin glances at his side mirrors in turn to keep an eye at the middle segment, his precious cargo. The Camaro can’t even be seen behind this.

They travel downhill, and Dustin will hang a right at the bottom then get them on the main road. Then he will have to look for signs telling him exactly where New Castle is. Gravity gradually takes control of the throttle, pulling them faster down the hill. Good, Dustin thinks. The sooner we get there the better. He allows them to pick up speed, having grown tired of the much slower pace.

Instead of a smooth application of the brakes before hitting the bottom, Dustin presses the pedal too hard and not soon enough. They aren’t stopping. He tries to turn, but momentum pulls the massive living space he tows out of its hitch and slams it into the slowing rig. The truck crashes to its side then slides across the road. All he can do is hold on and wait for the thing to stop. Without his seatbelt on, he has been bashed against his door, and now he lays on it.

Sparks of friction light up his ruined rig, and the screeching steel is maddening within the cab. But it all ceases as fast as it had begun.

A battered Dustin climbs up to the passenger side; all he can think about is Eve. The worst of all his physical ailments is his stomach, and he feels sick over letting the girl down. He wanted to be her hero, but now he feels three inches tall.

The scene brings him to tears, the mess he’s made. Eve’s trailer is trapped on an embankment with its front tires hanging in the air. He just stares at the enclosure, as if repeating that he’s sorry will reverse time. With shaky steps, he approaches the train wreck. He trembles more, nearing the box that contains the girl of his dreams. She must be terrified. He has no way to move it now, no way to help; she’s trapped inside by her illness. He wipes his eyes and looks away from the state of the trailer, not wanting to see Eve in the window, not even for one last time.

The purple car is on the road, seemingly unscathed. He slides behind its wheel, and what was a caboose is now a life raft. He turns the key and leaves her behind. Of all the lines he’s crossed in his life, of all the people he’s wronged and turned his back on through all of this, Eve is the one that will haunt him.

17

“Dead on arrival! Massive hordes are inbound. I estimate forty five minutes,” Carla reports to Dan.

“I want archers and long range rifles on the wall. Let’s keep eyes on the distance at all times,” he says, while helping a group of men move weapons from the gun shop to the back of a flatbed just outside the police station. “Get all kids and non-combatants to the school. I want all private paddocks cleared and the animals ready to roll up the hill.”

“Is that necessary?”

“If the hunger crazed zombies we saw in Raleigh are any indication, there’s a good chance they’re going to find a way in. We’ll want to take higher ground.”

“Gotcha!” She rushes off to get the cogs of the plan moving. En route, Carla speaks into a small radio she always carries, which is her direct line to her brother. “Sid?”

“What? I’m busy,” he complains on his end.

“I need you to get your ass up the hill and get it to the ranch… No, now, Sid! Shit’s going down and I can’t do my job if I have to worry about you. Yes, you can take your video games.”

18

She had watched him drive away. Dustin hadn’t called on his walkie-talkie or even checked in on her. She has no idea if he’s coming back. The floor moves like the deck of a boat, teetering back and forth. Eve unfastens her straps in the dark; her lights went out once she became disconnected from the truck. Solar panels are keeping her life support humming, for now. She knows it won’t be long before the sun goes down.

She could wallow in her predicament, wondering why she had been left behind, but she chooses to be more proactive. One of her fictional heroes was in a bubble, and in the film he had escaped using a homemade suit. Eve knows such a construction isn’t possible, but she does have a portable respirator with a full face mask. As long as she doesn’t breathe the air, and she sanitizes herself completely afterwards, she thinks she may be able to make it to New Castle. It’s risky, but her options are limited. The girl knows she could die waiting for Dustin to return. If he returns.

The mask is secured so tight it causes her pain, but she must endure the discomfort since a perfect seal is essential. A small green tank the size of a thermos will provide her with four hours of oxygen once she leaves. Before she can breach the door, she slathers a barrier cream all over her exposed skin to prevent microbes from entering through her dermis.

“Just one small step for a bubble girl,” she says to boost her confidence as she opens the airlock. The antechamber makes a hushing sound when she locks herself between home and the unknown. Eve hesitates to push the button that releases the outer seal. Eyes clenched tight, she finally hits it, not allowing herself to second guess her decision.

A slight breeze blows her hair, unlike the vents of her trailer. It isn’t an even flow; it’s ever changing and tickles her scalp. She can’t risk anything penetrating her feet while she walks, so she doubled up her socks and put on her sturdiest pair of slippers. Through the thick footwear, she can feel the hard asphalt. Though the cushioned antimicrobial carpeting of her pod was far more comfortable, it makes her smile.

“This is real!”

Eve begins to walk, feeling like an extraterrestrial on an alien planet. She hasn’t known true freedom from her protective captivity since the day of her birth. As a little girl she was able to venture out using a special lightweight suit that was bestowed to her by the head of the Rosie Parson’s project. Like many that have had to live in isolation, Eve suffered from depression at the onset of puberty, when she realized she would never lead a normal life. Never date or get married, never have kids of her own. So she refused a new suit once she outgrew the first, saying it was an unfair tease. Now she wishes to touch everything, taste the very breeze that makes her hair fly, stop and smell the flowers, but such actions could kill her and she hasn’t the time.

She only stops long enough to pull two latex gloves onto her right hand so she can pick up one of Dustin’s guns from the road--a large silver revolver with a bulbous, dangerous end she knows from television to be a silencer. Should she encounter one of the ‘unclean,’ as her father called them, she will surely need it.

19

“Will you stop staring at me?” Oz asks his passenger, who hasn’t stopped smirking since he picked her up.

“Sorry.” Becka blushes. “It’s just that you’re one-half of the latest power couple in our world.”

“We’ve met before!” he insists with irritation. “I’m the same guy.”

“So I’ve been thinking of a nickname to call you two on the air, like Brangelina. How do you like Coz?”

“Jesus.”

“If you don’t care for that one, there’s…”

“Not you.” He points while slowing his wrecker. “That.”

Becka was too distracted to notice the overturned semi, or the trailer that hangs over the embankment. “That wasn’t there this morning.”

“It wasn’t there thirty minutes ago.” Oz takes his shotgun from the gun rack behind them. “Stay here.”

The engine is left running so the large man can examine the fresh scene. He isn’t only compelled due to the recentness of the occurrence, but also because this trailer is like nothing he’s ever seen. It’s no simple RV; it’s a house on wheels. Mobile homes only earn their names because they can be moved, typically one time, then they are left to sit. This is a thing of beauty.

Custom built and donated by the Rosie Parson’s Project, he reads from a small brass plaque that’s affixed near the door. The peculiar opening beckons him; it leads into a tight breezeway. Oz pushes a button on the interior door, and after a slight delay the outer one shuts behind him. He is trapped in the claustrophobic space between portals while a small screen counts backwards from 10. The numbers stop at 3 with a loud buzzer and flashing red lights. The screen alternates messages telling him there has been an error, and that it has detected extremely high bacteria levels. Two options are given to him on the touch sensitive screen: sterilization and emergency override.

If this enclosure is what Oz thinks it is, he may be putting the inhabitant in danger, however the alternative isn’t much better. He chooses to consider the situation an emergency. The inner door opens. He calls into the darkness but gets no response.

His eyes adjust to the dim light entering through the windows, and he is starting to creep deeper into the home when Becka’s voice startles him. He had grabbed a walkie-talkie before departing Mater. “Oz, what’s going on?”

“Have you ever heard of a bubble boy?”

“Yeah, find one?”

“Just the home of one. Actually, it’s the home of a bubble girl judging by the clothes and color scheme.”

“Where’d she go?”

“Outer door was open. I think she went for a walk.”

“Won’t that kill her?”

“If she has to live in a setup like this, she must have it pretty bad. She should be all right if she has a suit or takes precautions.”

“How do you know so much about this?” Becka is forced to ask.

“I have a son. Doctors thought he would have to live in isolation…”

“One of your kids?”

“No, he was my own…”

“What happened?”

“His immune system kicked in.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” He leaves the subject closed. “Anyways, I did a lot of research on it.”

“Oz…”

“Becka, I’m not going to tell you…”

“The dead are coming!” she reports in a panicked whisper.

20

Eve didn’t get too far before she saw one of the unclean. A woman, from the looks of her tattered clothing. Beyond her apparel, there isn’t too much to go on in determining gender. The emaciated ghoul and the girl locked eyes for a split second before each started running. Unaccustomed to exercise, Eve is getting winded fast, sucking deeper and faster of the dry bottled air.

The frightened girl has made some ground in her race with the zombie. Her fear of the weapon she carries is too great to allow her to use it. Now about to stop from exhaustion, she sees something that forces a second wind upon her and adds vigor to her strides, a mob of the unclean more than fifty strong.

As far as she can tell they haven’t spotted her from where they travel in a pack along an intersecting road. She diverts swiftly and cautiously through the woods. She can’t allow herself to fall, for the slightest break in her skin will let her microscopic enemies in. Further, she can’t allow the undead lady on her heels to catch up to her.

One can’t have Eve’s condition without learning many facts about bacteria, germs, and viruses. She knows that the dirtiest mouths in the animal kingdom belong to the alligator and the human--a dog’s bite is far cleaner. There’s no telling how filthy a zombie’s mouth is.

Eve must push on in blind hope of stumbling into the town of New Castle. She has to believe that if these people have been able to survive in this world they have to be able to help her. A glance back shows she still has a healthy lead on the undead woman that follows her, but this also causes her to misstep. The girl sets all her weight down on the trunk of a fallen tree; a slight bend in the wood has caused an arch. The log rolls forward, swinging out from under her.

Caught off guard, Eve finds herself on the ground. She instinctively catches her fall with her hands and knees, bringing her a new sensation. Her protected existence has made her a stranger to pain. Tears blur her eyes while she inspects her body for breaks and abrasions, relieved to find none. Her relief is robbed form her once she hears her pursuer, though. The dead woman wails fervently as she rushes to where her quarry has stumbled. Eve’s misfortune is the zombie’s chance to eat at last.

But the corpse steps on the same log Eve had and suffers the same fate. Unlike the girl, she cannot feel pain, nor does she fear the gun pointed at her. All she knows is hunger.

Before the trigger can be squeezed the zombie is on her, and her mask is knocked away by cold and zealous hands. The girl’s weapon is pushed aside by the ghoul trying to satiate its gnawing appetite. Eve’s heels dig into the earth, trying to gain distance from the unclean woman. She attempts aiming her silent revolver, but the zombie lurches forward, sinking her teeth into her shoulder.

21

“Fucking coward!” Dustin screams at himself, punching the steering wheel. He has just left the person he loves to die on the side of the road, all alone. “How the hell can you do this to her?”

His actions are motivated by his characteristic ‘cut bait’ solution to any situation that is too scary, too tough, or too real for him to deal with. But he corrects himself, “No! I’m going to get her help at New Castle. They have to have trucks.”

He tries to breathe slower, sniffing back his tears. Stop worrying. Nothing can get to her. It’s not like she’s going anywhere, right?

“What if she saw me run away?” he ponders out loud, instantly feeling horrible again. Dustin attempts to relax. He can’t think of any recourse Eve might have taken even if she did witness him turning tail. Other than hating me.

While debating if he should turn around to tell Eve of his new plan, or lie to her about his old one, he sees a sign indicating he is close to his desired location. Dustin refuses to waste the time it would take to double back and floors the accelerator instead. This new sense of urgency leads to a disregard for the off-ramp’s advised speed limit of 25 miles per hour. The Camaro hugs the downward curve all the way to the overpass, plowing deep into a gathering of walking figures. Bodies crash and splatter across the car that comes to a halt among the throng.

The structure overhead obscures the sun, darkening Dustin’s waking nightmare. Slack, ghoulish faces surround him. They stare in through the windows, sneering with grins forged from decomposition. Just thin, fragile panes of glass stand between him and the dead that batter them, driven mad from starvation. They leave behind greasy smears and slabs of skin as they assault the vehicle.

Stepping on the gas has no effect; the car remains motionless, aside from a slight side to side rocking. The frightened boy has no idea his tires rest upon the torsos of the fallen and are spinning fruitlessly in their slick innards, like mud. He throws his machine into reverse, hoping it will work better for him.

The passenger window cracks under the assault, just as the racing engine finally prevails and the tires once again have purchase on the asphalt. Dustin lurches forward as the car blindly retreats through the crowd of corpses. He takes his ride backwards until he is on open road. He sees now that he had run into the tail end of a massive migration that seems to extend forever along the road he had wished to travel. As far as the eye can see there is nothing but walking dead.

The zombies under the overpass still have their sights on the purple car. Dustin has it in drive as they begin to build speed in their pursuit. He floors it back up the onramp and hangs a left, ultimately heading back the way he had come as fast as he can.

The breeze entering through the broken window feels nice, soothing. He concentrates on the line of asphalt he had already traveled, while he thinks of Eve and how to explain his disappearance. His focus is too narrowed to observe the hand that still grips the missing quadrant of the window. Jagged glass slices bone-deep into an unfeeling palm. The feet of a living dead hitchhiker scrape along the blacktop, while inch by inch it makes progress towards the absent portion of glass.

The refreshing air rushing in becomes pungent. It smells like shit and boiled cabbage! A moan rides on this very foul wind, and it draws the kid to the grisly sight of a face in the window. The dead man has gotten his right hand onto the side mirror; it would be salivating had it the ability, being this close to food.

As the small opening is breached by the traveling cadaver, Dustin attempts to shake him loose by swerving. The thing isn’t letting go, and its face scrapes against the shards, shearing off the left side. A quivering ear remains outside as its owner squeezes in. Dustin goes for his pistol, only to find it isn’t on him.

As a young boy, Dustin used to step on the tails of caterpillars to watch their insides purge out through their heads. He was too young to realize he was killing the creatures, the phenomenon just fascinated him. A human version of the act is playing out before his eyes; the dead man is shedding his clothing and skin in his efforts to get closer to lunch. Dustin is petrified by the sight.

The gravity of the situation hits him, and Dustin slams on his brakes. The peeled face nearing him sails forward to the top of the dash.

He hurries to retrieve his M-16 from the floor of the car where the rough driving had displaced it. The muzzle is facing him in its current position. Yanking on the strap proves useless because the ammo magazine is caught against the cushion. The lost seconds cost him dearly, for the dead man slithers in deeper still, writhing like a serpent. Teeth locate his hand.

Anger, fear, and disappointment send Dustin into a frenzy. He pulls his infected hand from the ghoul’s mouth and starts punching it. Dustin has the beast against the dashboard so he can wail relentlessly on the thing that has tarnished his plans. He cries as his knuckles split against the skull that refuses to still, the bones that just won’t break.

The boy’s arm falls limply to the center console, though his foe still reaches for him. Cold fingers brush his crestfallen face. He’s failed himself, failed Eve, and now he will turn into one of the very things that lie before him. He morosely stares into the eyes of the ghoul, those vacant eyes. Porch lights on with no one home.

“I’m not dead yet,” he tells the twitching corpse that cares not for words. “I can still help her. She still has a chance. Even if I ain’t it, she needs a hero.”

22

The gunshot was a mere whisper of what she had expected, though the recoil had sent her frail hand flying in the opposite direction. The gun became lost in the underbrush. Released from the dead woman’s hold, Eve just laid on the forest floor, looking up through the foliage. The sun shined down between the leaves, but the girl was unable to appreciate the grandeur. Terrible nausea wracked her midsection like a twisting dagger as minute particles in the air sent her into a coughing fit. Eve’s insides spasmed and cramped unbearably, giving her the worst pain she had ever felt.

She feels nothing now as she rises to her feet. Not the discomfort that plagued her belly, nor the shoulder that had been gnawed on by the zombie. The motes in the air don’t offend her anymore, nor the bacteria and germs she had been protected from her entire life. Her first steps are unsteady on the uneven terrain of twigs and rocks.

“How?” she asks her hands, extending the question higher, to her forearms. She continues up to the shoulder the corpse had sunken its teeth into. The cloth of her dress is mangled and stained with her blood, but the skin below that should be ravaged is unbroken. The only evidence of the attack is a large pink star of scar tissue; the bite wound has already healed. She is bewildered by the fact she is alive, but knows she can’t waste this second chance. She needs to get to town and out of the woods.

23

“We have visual,” Carla reports to Dan, the update hardly necessary since the shooters on the wall have opened fire.

“Are all our patrols back yet?”

“Everyone but Oz and Becka.” She sounds worried.

“Did you get him on radio?”

“Yeah, he’s heading for the mountain pass since all the gates are sealed.”

##

The mountain pass is an old service road that leads to Parson’s Dam and continues all the way to the Williamson ranch. The dam had been walled up on the far end to prevent trespassers, living or dead.

“Any farther north we’d be in Canada,” Oz tells Becka.

The dead she had warned him about had been far enough away he was able to exit the trailer and return to her. The mob was too deep to risk traveling south. They just started pouring from the woods, heading straight for New Castle.

The rusty old wrecker’s horn sounds at the barrier. Soldiers are already working to bring the structure down for his entry, and perhaps everyone’s retreat since so many dead are converging.

“What now?” Becka asks softly as they pass over the dam. She looks down the sheer wall of concrete, tracing the blue line of the Charles River below them all the way to the tiny town that looks even smaller in the distance.

“I’m going to drop you off at the ranch…”

“I want to help.” Her full attention snaps to the man.

Oz lets out an audible breath, “It might get bad down there. Sit tight at the…”

“No!” She crosses her arms over her chest and resumes her vigil at her window.

“I really think…”

“No,” she repeats, cutting him off.

They don’t speak again during the rough ride to the ranch, or while taking the hill that leads them down into the community.

“Honey, I’m home,” Oz announces as he exits his truck.

The sheriff’s eyes light up when she sees the man she’s been so worried about, but her eyebrow raises at the sight of Becka also hopping out of the tow truck. “Weren’t you dropping her…?”

“No,” he imitates the cheerleader’s obstinate tone.

“What can I do?” Becka asks eagerly.

“Schoolyard,” Carla says. “Receive the people we send you, get ‘em loaded, do a headcount, and keep ‘em calm.”

“Gotcha!” She dashes away.

“And me?” Oz asks, but already has an inkling as to what his duties will entail.

“Wrecking crew. I have a present for you on the back of that truck. I know you’ve had your eye on it… Don’t get dead.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” he retorts, leaning down to give the petite woman a kiss.

On the flatbed truck, he finds his present--a simple crate made of unfinished wood. The lid of the long box is stenciled in black: M249. The man peels back the lid like a kid on Christmas.

Oz lifts a belt-fed machine gun from the packing material, brushing away dust from its black finish so he can admire the weapon. It weighs about twenty two pounds, but he wields the beautifully destructive gift with ease. His girlfriend has given him a SAW, a Squad Automatic Weapon, and he can’t wait to use it.

Oz can’t get fully acquainted with his new toy, though. He has to make sure his kids are all right and on their way to the school. The fact that David’s car is now parked by Nails by Mee has him worried.

##

Mee-Yon and her family are the only Koreans in New Castle. Before the plague, the town hadn’t been able to attract much diversity. The family has owned and operated the only nail salon for twenty years. The matriarch sits filing the nails of a customer, getting an earful of his woes.

“He even yelled at me for not filling the ice cube trays correctly,” David complains. “How the hell do you fill ‘em wrong?”

“Aw, sweetie,” the woman empathizes. “You better off. You find a new man.”

“Oz and I aren’t…” His face flushes. “…we weren’t…”

“David!” Oz pops into the shop. “Where are the kids?”

“See how demanding he is?”

“Hey, you brute!” Mee-Yon points an expertly manicured finger at the large man. “You no yell at her, she a nice boy!”

“What?” Oz scrunches his brow for an instant then dismisses her order. “Where are the kids?”

David can see his ex-roommate is serious; he can’t take his eyes off of the enormous weapon hanging across his chest. “They’re at Lindsey’s… She’s showing them how to make ice cream. What’s going on?”

“Just get to the school! Both of you!”

##

Dan Williamson is hauling a pile of K-rails with a fork truck when he sees Oz sprinting past. “Oz!”

“Busy!” the man responds without slowing.

“’Kay. We’ll talk later.” The concrete barriers are to be a stopgap measure should the dead penetrate the walls. He has his people cruising the residential streets to pick up citizens. The first, and only, evacuation drill they ran using the tornado siren resulted in what Dan referred to as a ‘cluster fuck.’ Only half of the people responded, and those that did created a disorganized mosh of bottlenecked traffic. The taxi service idea is a slower process, but will keep them from trampling one another.

“We’re laying them down but more keep coming.” Carla suddenly appears as Dan drops his load off by the wall.

“As the buses fill, get them to the dam,” he sadly instructs. “Have them hold there.”

“Not the ranch?”

“No. If we decide to blow town entirely that mountain pass is far too long a trek. Better safe than sorry. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that. Make sure the drivers know to head for Raleigh.”

“Rally in Raleigh, got it!”

24

During Dustin’s questing for supplies he had traveled north, and he remembers seeing a sign indicating a road that leads to Parson’s Dam. The dam and New Castle are synonymous, and everyone in these parts knows it was conceived and built by a guy from the town, but in actuality the place was founded after the Charles River receded.

The pudgy soldier Dustin had spent a brief amount of time with in Waterloo had told him that people bitten only have less than two hours before they turn. He can’t remember how long ago he was bit, but he doesn’t care as long as he gets there in time to tell them where to find Eve. He is trying to think of something he can ask them to tell the girl, because he hates the idea of her thinking poorly about him since he almost ran away. The rescuers have to tell Eve that he only did it to get her help. Perhaps they can relay to her how he feels, that he loves her.

Dustin’s vision blurs as sweat invades his eyes after it pours down his forehead. He can’t wipe it away fast enough. If his vision was clear, he’d see his speedometer exceeding 100 miles per hour, and he’d also see the thick throng of walking corpses on the road. The Camaro barrels through them as if they are nothing. The bodies are cleared from his path like snowdrifts in the wake of a plow, and they limply sail over the swift moving car that pays them no mind.

Dustin tries to watch the road with one eye, while the other is closed tightly due to irritation. No sooner did he regain visual clarity and the road kill slaps fresh smears upon his windshield. The wipers are making it worse, though doused liberally with blue fluid. One effective pass on his passenger side gives him a glimpse of Eve’s home, left like a forgotten toy. Dustin can’t stop though he’d like to, but he has to get her help. He must do this one last thing for his love.

25

“Pull back the archers, break out the fine china,” Dan commands. “I want the wrecking crew at the first barrier.”

The dead have made it to the gates. The bowmen are taken off duty since they are ineffective at this range and angle. The structure is becoming unstable, and the collective exertion of the dead is shaking the wall. The living had once deemed the blockade to be solid, but that was before the enemy became so starved and so plentiful.

“Archers, go to the base of the hill!” Carla redirects them, putting them where they can do the most good for the cause. “Wrecking crew, two lines! Your fallback position will be the ammo dump.”

The sheriff listens to the town gossip through an ear piece; the radio chatter keeps her apprised of all communications. “They’re in the woods all around town… Heavy numbers on the west side near the river.”

The barriers that protect them along the woods are far weaker than those along the roads and fields. Stretches of the river had been left open for access to fishing and wildlife. They always thought they’d be safe with the breaches since the dead won’t enter the water.

“How are the door-to-doors going?” she asks.

“Almost complete,” someone answers. “We have three vehicles out in the boonies still.”

Housing assignments were issued concentrically, starting from the heart of town to keep folks close. Some residents of the town, those who lived here long before the wall, chose to remain in their out of the way dwellings.

“Where’s Oz?” Carla asks Dan.

“He said he was busy,” he reports.

He is happy to see a line of blue buses starting to head up the hill.

##

“Oz,” Lindsey Thompson smiles, relieved to see the man.

“Hey, Linds. Kids been behaving?” he asks.

“They’re always such angels,” she replies.

The scene behind the large man with the massive rifle is a peculiar one; the buses that have been parked at the school are beginning to wind through town, and at the wall soldiers are positioned behind concrete blocks.

“What’s the commotion?”

“Barbarians at the gates, so to speak.” He plays off the true weight of it then whispers to her. “Can you get the kids loaded up onto one of the remaining buses? Watch them a bit longer?”

“Of course.”

One of the children, a little girl named Desiree, tugs Oz’s shirttail. Like the others, her face is plastered with the ice cream they had made themselves.

Oz scares most adults upon sight, due to his stature and constant grave expression, but he looks down into the girl’s eyes and softens, dropping to a knee. “Hey, Dez. What’s wrong?”

Though unable to know the full extent of what is going on, she is perceptive enough to feel the tension in the air. Obviously fearing for the man’s safety, her eyes water. “Stay with us, Ozzie.”

“I gotta help out here. You all need to stick with Lindsey. She’s taking you to the dam.”

“The dam’s boring!” she whines. “Can I stay with you?”

“Afraid not,” he breaks the news gently. “I’ll be there as soon as we’re done here. Promise.”

The girl surrenders, returning to the others.

Oz returns to his feet. “I should get down there. Kids, be good.”

They watch him depart fearlessly back to the frontlines. Lindsey tells the children to leave their dishes where they are and that she’ll take care of them later. Twenty four sticky sets of hands form a chain that she leads to the schoolyard. The woman keeps constant alert over the flock, not wanting to misplace a single precious one. The act fills her with anxiety, being responsible for so many little lives, keeping them safe from an enemy she can’t even see. But she trusts the many figures standing bravely at the wall, those who have volunteered to protect her, the children, and all the other souls that inhabit the town. Once she has them all within the chain link enclosure, she can breathe a bit easier, and she’ll feel even better once they are on a bus.

“The wipers on the bus go…” Becka stops singing to another group of kids when she sees her old friend from Waterloo enter the yard with a fresh audience. She runs to the woman, who had practically adopted her and Barbara as her own the day the dead began to walk. The women hug each other tightly.

“Kids, over here!” David calls from one of the last transports out of town. The tiny ones dash to where their other ‘legal’ guardian beckons.

“Where’s Barb?” Lindsey asks.

“Up the hill, helping Heather get the Raleigh girls ready,” she must excuse herself briefly to speak into a radio. “Carla, by my count we have almost everyone except for the soldiers and a few stragglers.”

“There’s some folks refusing to leave. Hold up a bit. We’re going to blow the siren to light a fire under them.”

##

“Burt?” Carla’s voice squawks out of a radio on the west side of town. She had to repeat the name a second time, and loudly, to be heard over the siren’s whine. “Any luck?”

“One of the hold outs is coming, but McCleary says the lord will protect her.”

“Yeah he hasn’t met her yet,” the sheriff quips. “Give her one last chance then bring it in. No sense getting others killed for her bullshit. ‘Kay?”

“Rodger that.” He signs off on his way to the old librarian’s door to issue her one final chance. The tornado warning blares, but when the siren’s scream lowers, Burt hears something coming from the woman’s side yard.

26

The first few fearful steps she took in the woods were like those of a baby just learning how to walk. Eve soon grew the confidence to stride, feeling stronger and more capable than ever before. Not long after that she was running, heading east towards the only civilization she knows of. Someone there should be able to help, or at least be able to explain what is happening to her.

She discovered the Charles River and stopped to admire its wondrous beauty. Feeling as empowered as she did, she figured she could spare the time to stop, laying her hand upon the water so the surface could trace her palm and tickle her fingers. A school of tiny fish made her smile. They huddled close against the stream, hovering with the grace of humming birds. The beige fish that had almost entirely blended into the silty river bottom scattered, scared off by the sudden loud snap of a branch.

The girl looked behind her to the origin of the sound; a low hanging branch of a dead tree had fallen after being disturbed by another dead thing walking into it. Like a startled deer, she stood straight up and stared at the raggedy ghoul. She had nowhere to run from the approaching figure. The woods were filled with the unclean ones, lumbering between the trees. Eve took steps backwards into the river when she realized the dead were paying her no notice. They passed her by like she wasn’t even there. The zombies drew to the bank and followed the flow.

The unclean were so close to her she could have touched them had she the desire. Instead she followed them, finding their behavior as intriguing as it was disturbing. What had her worried more than the ravenous monsters was their lack of aggression towards her. Do they see me as one of them? she had thought. Will I become like this?

The river had taken a left turn, but the dead continued to lead the girl through the woods.

Eve stands with the dead now as they beat upon the planks of a wooden wall. From their tenacity she can tell they really want in. Where they have loosened a board, they try to squeeze in even though it is far too tight, pushing and pulling one another aside for access to the breach that rolls their rotten flesh away from their bones. The ones bullied to the sidelines stumble to the ground, their limbs and faces avulsed.

The throng grows as more arrive, despite some lighthearted graffiti that clearly states: Property of New Castle: Zombies keep out! She walks farther along the wall, noticing that it actually uses the trees of the forest as its posts. Eve discovers a tree that looks climbable--a way for her to scale the barrier. Below her, the dead are managing to pull away another plank.

27

“We have a breach!” The voice in Carla’s ear announces the news she has been dreading.

“Where at, Burt?”

“McCleary’s on Maple Lane,” he reports. “I got her on board.”

“Good. Bring ‘em in.”

“A breach?” Dan surmises from her somber expression.

“Maple,” she pinpoints the threat for him, nodding as he eyes go glassy with uneasiness.

“The second they pass us, close up shop. We’ll hold back the dead just long enough to give the last buses a healthy lead.”

##

Burt is driving twice the posted speed limit of 35 miles per hour along the rural road. He isn’t concerned about the few corpses that have entered; he simply wants to unload the bickering folks in his van. Mrs. McCleary is admonishing the community’s ‘sinful’ ways, claiming such behavior is the cause of all of this. A married couple who are both about her age are countering her. The pair claims to have an unwavering pride in the town that has only grown stronger since the wall went up.

The van slows when the driver spots a figure walking unhurriedly along the cracked edge of the road. The leaves caught in her disheveled hair and her dirty dress makes him question her affiliation in their war on the deceased. Burt paces her so he can call out his window, “Hey! Are you all right?”

The girl turns slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Get in,” he tells her, taking off the second she is seated. He has his eyes on his rearview but doesn’t see any trouble following them just yet.

Burt takes in his new passenger, thankful that her arrival has ceased the arguing of the trio. He doesn’t recognize the pretty face and wonders if she might be one of the Raleigh women he had heard about, and if so why is she out here in the sticks. Her blood stained shoulder brings up an important question, “Have you been bitten?”

Eve inspects her shoulder again where the zombie woman had sunk her teeth in, now just a memory of damaged skin. “I thought so… I guess not.”

From the rustic side road, they enter the heart of town. Burt takes them straight to the school, while the older citizens resumed the debate he is sick of hearing. “Here you go. Have fun.”

Seeing a headache waiting to happen, Becka assigns the squabbling folks to the last three seats of one of the buses. The one she has no intention of riding in.

The youngest of the evacuees has an unfamiliar face. “Have we met?”

“No.”

“I’m Becka. You’ll be riding with me on this bus. Go ahead and take a seat, please.”

A soon as the seemingly shy girl enters through the accordion doors, Becka calls Carla, “We’re moving out.”

“Good work! See you soon.”

DJ Becka climbs the three steps onto the blue bus and smiles at Lindsey behind the wheel. “Ok, let’s roll.”

She slides into the seat behind the driver, right next to Eve. The frail girl who has never been around so many people before has no idea where they are all going. The chattering of children and smiling faces should put her at ease, but they only make her hungry.

28

The siren has been killed at the sheriff’s order, and now the air feels oddly still without it. With all the citizens departing, it isn’t necessary, and the soldiers will all feel better if they don’t have to yell to talk to one another.

Carla sidles between the two men in her life at the firing line. “Buses away, boss. And we’ve sealed Maple Lane.”

“How?”

“Cocktail party,” she implies the liberal use of Molotov. “It should hold them back long enough.”

“Good,” Dan says.

Ahead of them, skeletal arms hang limply through gaps in the wall. The zombies have been thrusting their hands in, only to have the muscles required to move them striped away.

Boards creak from the relentless battering from the other side. Planks rattle and bow inwards.

Carla speaks with sorrow, “It looks like the sky is falling.”

Looking down the scope of a rifle, the sheriff takes aim on one of the gaps, and she gets a bead on the ghoul the wood frames. Not long after she puts a bullet between that set of dull eyes, another pair enter the ever widening crack. More shooters find targets where other sections come loose or are broken in by the enemy. The dead on Maple are finding alternate routes towards the living.

“They’re on the covered bridge,” Carla relays what has been reported to her.

“Light it,” Dan says.

Though walled at the middle, the historical structure is too much of a liability. The dead are becoming resourceful in their desperate quest to feed. It may be beyond their capabilities, but he can’t risk them scaling the outer buttresses.

Men are moved to the roads that intersect Main Street. The dead are coming, rushing through chinks in the wall like flood waters through a collapsed levy. Dan times the convoy’s progress in his mind. By now they should be passing the ranch.

“Start pulling back,” he says.

The town’s militia begins a systematic retreat just as a section of wall is forced upwards like a doggy door. The dead are in a frenzy to dive through the opening. The living aren’t sure if the zombies can hear the roar of their machine guns, or if they know what the sound entails, but if so they don’t seem to care. Stilled corpses pile up under the gap as more climb upon the fallen to attain the meals that backpedal away.

The enemy has gained a foothold on the town, and they are on their feet, advancing to the cement barricades. From abandoned residential streets, more zombies progress towards the main road. Killing shots are irrelevant in the haste, and all the survivors can wish to accomplish is slowing the dead down with their devastating firearms. They target the midsections of the deceased in the hopes of taking out their spines to paralyze them from the waist down. They just need to buy enough time to get all the combatants piled into their vehicles.

The wall they erected to protect them has proven inadequate. They couldn’t have predicted an assault of this magnitude, or that the insatiable hunger would drive the creatures mad, making them capable of this.

One by one, the trucks and vans head for the hill, being led by the flatbed armory. Dan joins his two most trusted compatriots in the Attack Track, taking the rear of the procession. The three watch as New Castle is swallowed by a flood of the walking dead. This elevation added by the incline allows them to look out over the wall at the sea of bodies still outside, fighting to enter through the leaks, like water entering the hull of a sinking ship. They mourn in silence for their lost home, each wondering if they’ll ever be able to salvage it again.

Dan had hoped Heather and the boys would already be at the rendezvous by now, but they are still at the ranch. The van stops to pick them up, and having just witnessed the fall of the town he is happy to see his wife’s face. He needs to hold his family.

Heather had waited in the very shuttle she had used to escape Waterloo. Now Barbara and the Raleigh women are loaded on board. One of the ladies, saved from the neighboring town, takes the wheel so Heather can ride with her husband. The king and queen sit together on the floor of the van; each has one of their sons upon their laps.

“So we’re going to Raleigh?” Heather asks solemnly, though she knows the answer. She needs to hear someone say it.

“The town’s lost. There’s just too many of them…” Dan’s voice is low and disparaged, feeling that he’s failed everyone. All our hard work, down the drain. “Perhaps we can take it back one day. Maybe in the winter when they are more docile.”

“There is a bright side,” Carla pipes in optimistically. “With so many zombies trapped inside the walls, the world outside just got a little safer.”

The vehicles have formed two lines on Parson’s Dam; the blue buses are on the right, and the armed convoy on the left. Men stand at the ready to take down the barrier once again after restoring it proceeding Oz’s entry. They await Dan’s order.

The king hopes that the walls of Raleigh prove stronger. He gazes over the assembly of trucks and buses before him, all the souls within are counting on him. Thoughts of being an ineffective leader fill him with self-loathing; he turns the hatred into something productive, indignation. He refuses to let his people down.

Before the word can be delivered to remove the planks, two figure tumble out of the last bus in line. Lindsey is grappling with a young woman on the concrete plane.

Dan races to the scene, being the first to arrive. He pulls the girl he doesn’t recognize away and holds her to the ground. “Lindsey, who is this?”

“I have no fucking idea!” she curses, out of breath and out of character. “Bitch tore Becka’s throat out with her teeth.”

“Oh no!” Carla shudders with concern over her friend. She rushes onto the transport.

“She just started screaming about being hungry…” Lindsey says, covered in her adopted daughter’s blood. “I had to get her away from the kids.”

“She was talking?” Oz ponders.

“What’s your name?” Dan questions his prisoner.

“Eve,” she answers meekly. “Please let me eat.”

Dan ignores the request. “Lindsey, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m…” She is cut off and startled when a single shot rings out from the bus.

“Can you drive?” Dan asks as calm as possible.

“I think so,” Lindsey responds, still shaken from the incident and the loss of Becka. The DJ of New Castle has been silenced.

“I need you to get this bus to Raleigh. Oz, I need duct tape,” Dan isn’t certain if the dead will be able to track them all the way out here, but he doesn’t like waiting.

The smoking barrel of Carla’s gun trembles in her hand. Thin streaks of mascara run down her cheeks, but the sorrow that had birthed her tears has become rage. The sheriff stares daggers at the girl with the blood stained mouth.

Dan takes the roll of grey tape from Oz. “Get Carla out of here! I want that wall down, now!”

29

Dustin had arrived at the dam only to be met by a wall of boards. He listens now to the water that rushes, creating the electricity that will power his guitar. The loud crash of the cascading fluid sounds like screaming. He opens his trunk and sees that the array of ammunition and explosives has shifted, severely jarred in their bumpy voyage to this point. He holds a grenade. His foggy brain tries to remember the instructions of its use that he had learned so long ago. …Squeeze the thing… pull the pin… throw.

The dizzy young man wants to get through the barrier fast, and this seems like such a good idea to him. He carries out the first two steps. Don’t pump it. The recollection of the warning shifts all of his concentration to keeping the device in his hand inert.

His insides are in agony, as if they are on fire. He doubles over in pain and must use the open hatch of his purple car to remain on his feet. Dustin rounds his idling Camaro and is puzzled; the barrier is gone, replaced by two rows of vehicles heading his way. That was easy, he thinks, though is unsure how the grenade he still holds could have possibly done the trick since he is still holding it.

A delirious Dustin slides behind the wheel and slowly enters the opening between the rows that pass him. He must steer with one hand, not certain what he is to do with the object he holds in the other.

##

Never before has Dan ever attempted to tape someone to the point of immobility while trying to hold them to the ground, and he is finding it quite the challenge. Though Oz had started the first few inches of the adhesive material for him, it is still awkward. He can’t let up on the girl under him too much, for she is fighting his efforts. His only consolation is that the convoy is moving.

The Attack Track stops just behind the king as a foreign car cruises up to the scene, stopping diagonally before Dan. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s a Camaro,” Oz answers through the open window of the van; he took over the wheel so Carla could mourn her friend’s passing in the back.

The distraction is enough for the girl to snake free from her captor, capitalizing on his shift of focus. She rolls under the hands that bind her to the dam in order to bite into his arm. Her teeth grate Dan’s bicep like a saw as she rends a sizable chuck of flesh away.

“Fuck!” Dan hisses in pain. Now he is too busy holding pressure on his bleeding wound to finish taping the girl. He backs away.

After chewing the stolen morsel, the one named Eve is ready for another helping. Her eyes lock on the man, whose flavor lingers on her palate. She rises to her feet, and the wide roll of tape dangles from her wrists. She is able to free herself while she strategizes how she will get another mouthful.

From behind the famished young lady comes the blaring of a horn and a familiar voice, “Eve!”

“Dustin?” She turns.

At least they know each other, Dan puzzles the pair of strangers as he rounds the front of the Attack Track. He intends to leave them behind and has no reservations about it, though he can’t quite look away from their reunion.

“You left me,” she says sadly.

“I came here to find you help,” he tells her with sincerity, having lied to himself so well he actually believes his own words.

The two fall into each other’s arms, but their tender embrace is sullied by the girl succumbing to her hunger. She buries her teeth into the lad’s throat. What ruins the moment for Dan is the sight of a metallic ball falling from the boy’s grasp. Dan has to leap into the van.

“Reverse! Now!” he yells to Oz as he takes his family into his arms.

The large man doesn’t think twice about it, or so much as ask why. He just shifts and slams on the accelerator. The reason for Dan’s sudden decision becomes as clear as day when the object of his dread goes off before the white van can get across the long span. The Camaro erupts, as does the contents of its trunk, in a devastating burst of orange.

The group sits quietly now that they have made it to the safety of land, staring at the grey wall that holds back more than 4 trillion gallons of water. The purple car and the star-crossed lovers are gone, and in their place is a smoldering crater. From the smoking pit, deep fissures form that spread rapidly like rays along the face of Parson’s Dam.

“Turn us around, get us to the ranch,” Dan tells the driver. He and his loved ones had toppled in the lurch, but he was able to put himself between them and a rack of M-60s.

“We might be able to…” Oz says.

“No,” Dan counters. “Step on it!”

Cross Lake, which resulted from the backed up Charles River, is already swirling. This is what it has been waiting for since the obstruction went up nearly forty years ago. The manmade body of water is starting to fill in the cracks, about to exploit the weakening structure in the name of freedom.

Again using his body like a human seatbelt, Dan protects the other Williamsons against the inevitable somersault. A quick 180 degree turn points them up the rough dirt mountain pass. The road dips at the middle; they need to be speeding up the other side before the dam finally gives under the strain.

Oz can’t see the Parson’s Dam, but he can only imagine that it is about to lose its battle against the immense pressure at any second. He negotiates the bends and curves of the path, darting glances at his rearview for what he fears, and will have no defense against should he see it. Should the impending wall of water overtake them, there’s no hope, no stopping the destructive power.

A rumble forebears the horrible sight that appears before his widening eyes in the mirror. It uproots trees as it chases the survivors, a monster of ever-changing shape. The van crests the hill mere seconds before the surge reaches the end of the trail. The flood leaves the ground off the incline, becoming airborne. Water cascades down in sheets of rain as far as the eye can see as the torrent settles back into its original bed, altered now as a result of its vicious revenge. The droplets dissipate, surrendering to gravity and leaving behind a fading rainbow. The beauty of the display can’t lighten the truth; there will be no reclaiming New Castle now.

Section VII: The Suicide King

1

Like looking at a fresh wound, the survivors have trouble taking their first glance of their beloved town from the top of the hill. The Charles River has chosen a new path through New Castle, and the sight weakens their knees. The entire town is submerged, and the hill that the witnesses stand upon has become an island.

All but a handful of the higher placed homes have been lost to the surge. Dan Williamson collapses upon a granite bench that looks out over the ruins, and also serves as the grave marker for his Uncle Bruce. He can’t believe it’s all gone. Carla and Oz have walked to the road that just moments ago could have brought them into the town; they look down the length of asphalt with scoped rifles to ensure the dead didn’t make it above the flood waters.

After the grievers’ have a quiet wake for their loss, they proceed into the ranch. No one eats, or talks. Dan’s wound is dressed; he is watched closely as a precaution in case he has become infected by the odd girl on the dam. Though the night is still young, everyone finds a place to retire. The weight of the day has exhausted them. With the exception of the two young Williamsons that play together happily, everyone sheds tears for New Castle and worries about those who have departed. Without the dam to make power, their radio is out and they cannot get in touch with the others. Carla’s private line to Sid is out of range.

2

The sunrise casts golden hues over the land, but the majesty of the sky seems unbefitting of the carnage below. Striated swirls of clouds hang motionless, as if they are the, brush strokes of a great painter whose masterpiece lays unfinished. The brilliance above is reflected off of the river where Main Street once was, and the theater, and the school. The large plaster cow has been washed away from where it had stood outside the creamery longer than Dan can remember. It’s gone. It’s all gone.

The king looks over his realm, having had a restless night. Unable to lie in bed any longer, he came out for some fresh air. From his vantage he thinks of the place that thrived, despite the adversity that had claimed the world beyond their walls. The very adversity that came knocking for them yesterday. During the night, when they realized they had no electricity and were forced to use candles to see, Dan had an odd thought about his uncle’s stint in the navy.

Often referred to as his ‘brief’ time in the navy, Bruce had only been enlisted for less than two weeks. He never quite made it through boot camp, which is meant to break a man so he can be built back up ‘the Navy way.’ The problem was you just can’t break a man like Bruce. From the day he stepped off the bus at the Recruit Training Command as an eighteen year old, he was in trouble. The Division Commanders, tired of threatening a punk kid they couldn’t intimidate, deemed him ‘un-trainable’ and had him administratively separated.

Though Uncle Bruce would often talk of his time as if he were a salty sailor, Dan recalls one thing the man had spoken of--the smoking lamp. When a ship is out to sea, during the dark of night, they tell their crew when they can, and can’t, smoke. The reason for this is because a cigarette’s cherry can be seen for miles away across the black ocean, and may give up the ship’s position to the enemy. That’s how they found us, Dan determines. They were drawn to our lights at night and eventually locked onto our location.

From the corner of his eye in the morning glow, he sees a figure sitting on the granite bench that shouldn’t be there. He feels compelled to say something, to make amends for his failure, but is at a loss as to what he can possibly say. The seated man just raises a hand up to silence his nephew.

“Sit.”

The elder slides over just enough to make room for Dan on the bench that had been made long ago from granite taken out of the Williamson quarry. Like a child caught coloring on an important document, Dan blurts his excuse, “Bruce, I can explain…”

“Don’t bother. I saw the whole thing,” the true king says with a shrug. “Don’t blame yourself. Who knew a Camaro could be so explosive? It’s too bad Chevrolet is out of business, this would have been a nice lawsuit. There’d at least be a massive recall. I blame those damned kids. And, maybe, Mother Nature.”

“This again?”

“She’s had it in for us Williamsons ever since we scarred the earth to make our quarry. Then, I had to go cum in her mouth by making my dam. It was just a matter of time till she spit, right?”

“Aw, Bruce!” Dan says out of frustration, laying his face in his hands. “What the fuck are we going to do? We’re stranded here, the rest of us are out there. There’s no way to regroup that I can see!”

“What’s this ‘we’ shit? I’m just visiting,” Bruce says. “I’m taking my ass back upstairs in a minute. Your old man and I have a pool game scheduled. Grudge match between Ben Franklin and Jesus. They’ve been talking all sorts of shit after besting us one time. Wall and I are going to mop the floor with those douchebags.”

“Your skin cleared up.” Dan notes that his uncle’s face is now intact and not the ruined visage he saw when he was brought home.

“Yeah, they like to keep appearances up where I am. I keep telling the Big Guy he needs to get on his kid about wearing some gloves, cover up that garish stigmata… There’s just no trusting a guy who can cheat at a game of peek-a-boo.”

The diversionary exchange loses its power. The king without a realm is exasperated and asks, “What am I going to do?”

“Something will come to you,” the dead man stands. “I’m just a figment of your imagination. Try to calm down. The stress is causing a cerebral blockage, making it hard for you to brainstorm. Do what I do, curl up with a good book. I prefer magazines actually. Relieve that tension.”

“Are you telling me to jerk off?”

“No need for such vulgarity. I’m just saying you need to take a little ‘me time.’”

##

Dan opens his eyes in the dark. His dream of the morning had been so vivid he feels jetlagged; it’s still the dead of night. He rolls out of an empty bed, forgetting the wound given to him by the strange girl. The bandage shifts, separating the fresh scabs and making it sting.

His visitation from his uncle has given him an idea. So he rushes through the quiet ranch to the den, using a candle to see. He must hold a hand before the flame lest his haste extinguish his light source. Heather and Carla are sitting at the chessboard table by the hearth, playing cribbage by lantern light.

“Hi, honey,” his wife says. “Can’t sleep either?”

Dan doesn’t hear her, because he’s too busy searching the room for what he has been inspired to find. He darts from the bar to the gun cabinets trying to locate it.

“Looking for something?” Carla asks the obvious. She knows that he is and simply wants to be helpful.

Dan halts his furious inspection, feeling lightheaded. It isn’t simply the time change between now and his dream. His body is hot though he feels chilled. “Have you guys seen a big box of porn anywhere?”

“What?” Heather inquires, her shock is evident in her voice.

“Magazines,” he explains. “Penthouse, Hustler, Swank…”

“I heard you! Why are you looking…” she attempts to ask, but he is off again, re-searching places he has already been.

Carla attempts to use humor to diffuse the awkward and potentially explosive situation. “My dad, before he ran off, always said ‘it doesn’t matter where a man gets his appetite, as long as he’s eating at home.’” She fails to ease the tension, but after a nervous laugh she takes another stab at it. “Of course, he always seemed to opt for takeout. You know, something cheap and easy he could pick up. I think I’m going to go.”

“No, Carla, stay. I want you to see this,” Dan says without looking at her.

“I don’t think I want to… whatever it is.”

A feverish Dan looks at the tree trunk table that the bewildered ladies sit at. The impressive piece of furniture on which he had played countless games of chess against Bruce last winter. After Oz had brought his uncle’s body home, Dan took a peek at what lies within a secret cabinet under the heavily lacquered top. The women watch him pull four hefty banker’s boxes from it.

Three of the troves are filled with files, loose papers, and envelopes. Since they are of no use to Dan, he pushes them away so he can focus on the one he has been questing for. He feels eyes upon him, and finally realizing the oddness of his actions he explains himself. He isn’t certain how to word this, how to tell his spectators that his uncle came to him in a dream to tell him the solution to all their turmoil is masturbation.

Dan just lifts the lid to the crate to reveal two neat stacks of periodicals. The left is composed of vintage magazines in mint condition. If a market for them still existed, they would be very valuable. The other tower yields modern, far raunchier fare. It isn’t what is in the box, the published material, he sought.

Dan turns the lid over in his hands to view the long white envelope taped to the plain brown underside, a discovery he had ignored on his previous inspection. Written in Bruce’s hand are the words Dan once thought meaningless, or held only value for the author himself. Now, they could mean everything: In the event of a water landing.

##

Hey kid,

If you’re reading this, one of three things has happened. 1) I never made it back from Vermello, and probably never will. 2) I made it back only to expire on the throne.

3) You’ve proved to be a horrible nephew and husband, and went behind not only your wife’s back but mine as well to look at my personal cache of spank rags.

Personally, I’m rooting for option three, but I know you’re better than that. If the words I labeled this with have piqued your interest it can only mean that all the naysayers who told me I was crazy to build my dam here were right, or that it has fallen by unnatural means. Since I can’t predict who is at fault, I’m going to make it easy and just blame you. Whatever you did, it’s done, so stop worrying about it.

All the negativity of those people made me doubt myself. I began to wonder what I would do if the Parson’s did collapse. It had me paranoid to say the least.

The hill my ranch sits on was constructed by carting the excavations of our quarry out east here. I couldn’t stand the thought of settling on anything but New Hampshire soil. The ranch itself was once a ski resort. I had some wild times at in Vermont. I had it moved board by board here and reconstructed. Rich guys like me like to do shit like that. Why else be rich, right?

Getting to the point, I’ve never held much faith in insurance. A man is his best insurance. Those companies just like to dick people around, make them pay for peace of mind then never come through when they’re needed. A man needs to use his brain and prepare for the unthinkable, instill fail safes and contingencies in the anticipation of any disaster. One day you’ll learn how to use yours. Probably not with the same surgical precision as I use mine, but it’ll suit you.

As I watched them rebuild my home, I had an epiphany. This is the point you will call me crazy…

##

“He’s crazy!” Dan says after reading his uncle’s plan.

“What is it?” Heather asks.

“Bruce wants us to build an ark!”

##

People often speculated where the Charles would go if the dam ever failed. Some said it would follow its old path, others said it would wash everything in its way straight to Mexico. Actually, it’ll veer east a bit and dump into the Gulf between Louisiana and Florida. I’ve made it a point to keep abreast of all changes in the topography south of here, both natural and manmade. I told you I was paranoid.

Once underway, your best bet will be to stick to the middle and ride Old Man River all the way. You may be thinking that the voyage is too risky, but staying is riskier. The fact may have escaped your attention, perhaps it hasn’t presented itself yet, but our hill is now an island, and it’s going to erode fast. The river is far too swift and the hill is just a pile of dirt and scraps of granite. It’ll melt like a pat of butter before long.

The reason you need to keep to the middle is simple--the shores aren’t going to be smooth from ages of wear. There’s going to be surprises underneath: buildings, trees, and all sorts of shit you don’t want to hit or get stuck on. As far as your vessel, there’s a shed out on the far edge of my land, and in it are all the tools and supplies you’ll need. Even before I wrote this, I made you an instruction manual. Follow it to the letter, or else you’ll surely get yourself into trouble.

Don’t fuck this up,

Bruce

3

At first light, the castaways walk to the shed at the property’s end, after consuming a breakfast of the few items not packed up for Raleigh. Everyone ate but Dan, who felt too nauseous and didn’t see any point in wasting the food if it was just going to come back up. He feels a chill, though he sweats profusely.

Words of concern are ignored, and he tells his wife and friends that he is fine. They suggest he lie down, but he refuses. He needs to see the extent of his uncle’s obsession. The inventory is exactly what he predicted--extensive. Bruce never took the easy way. The supplies are stacked to the rafters: planks and steel pipes, elbow joints and bags of assorted hardware, and of course King Bruce’s explicit handwritten instructions.

As a kid, when Uncle Bruce would make a rare visit, the two would put together models. The man always brought one with him as a gift. Dan, like most kids, would often get ahead of himself and need to be reminded to follow the directions, lest he skip an important step in the order of operations. Dan would become so excited about the finished product, he’d forget the minute details involved, which would result in sports cars with no seats, bombers without their gun turrets. Bruce never got mad. He would just say things like: ‘If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing right,’ or ‘Measure twice, cut once.’

“Are we doing this?” Carla skeptically asks.

“Not much choice,” Dan answers, leaning against the shed for strength. “We’re eroding. One way or another we’re going into the river.”

“And we’ll be out of food before long,” Oz adds.

“Can we do this?” Heather inquires.

“Yup.” Oz peruses the schematic. “It’s all mapped out perfectly. Shouldn’t even take too long.”

Jack and Vincent watch them carry long items from the shed. The boys sit contently in a tandem stroller with its sunshade drawn over their heads. The grown-ups have no such luxury to protect them from the heat, and within an hour they are sweating, especially Dan whose shirt is completely drenched. He had foolishly hoped the endeavor would be like something out of a movie montage, with the group unanimously deciding to take on the task, everyone lifts a tool, a few snapshots later and the job is done. So far all they have is a steel frame sitting on rows of smooth timber out on the front driveway.

“Hey, boss, why don’t you sit this out for a bit?” Oz addresses Dan.

“We need to get this done,” he responds, his vision going double when he looks at the large man.

“We will. Everyone is going to take turns resting. You first.”

Before Dan can protest further, he is being helped to the ranch.

“Will he be ok?” Heather asks.

“Probably just exhaustion and stress making him sick,” Carla tries to assure her friend. “Let’s keep working.”

4

Dan sits up on the couch when the others enter the den. A wool blanket is over his shoulders, and though it irritates the painful goose bumps all over his flushed body, he feels he can’t live without it. He feels much better having rested, much more cognizant. “My turn to go back out?”

“It’s all done, honey,” Heather says, sitting next to her husband. She touches his burning skin and he notices she almost recoils from the heat.

“Really? What time is it?”

“Must be around 6 PM,” Carla estimates. “We’ll set sail in the morning.”

“Good.” Dan nods. “The more daylight the better. Sorry I didn’t help more. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never get sick.”

“It’s fine.” Heather rubs the top of his head softly. “Have you eaten?”

“No.” he says emphatically. “I’m still too nauseous.”

The three boxes Dan had moved to locate his uncle’s secret letter catch Oz’s eye, upon the sides he recognizes the words he had seen on the isolation trailer: The Rosie Parson’s Project. “What’s this?”

“Bruce’s old papers,” Dan answers. “I still haven’t gone through them.”

“Oh, but the porn you knew all about,” Heather teases.

“What are you guys doing?” Dan asks when they kneel by the troves to investigate the old files.

“Snooping,” Carla replies.

Oz chuckles at her honesty. “Who’s Rosie Parson?”

“An old flame of my uncle. She died before they could marry. Some sort of heart condition. The dam is--was--named after her. He did a lot of charity work in her name.”

“I’ll say,” Oz confirms, bringing Dan an open folder. “Look familiar?”

It takes a moment for his eyes to focus on a photograph of a young girl clipped inside the manila cover. The flash of the camera used created a glare on a sheet of plastic that stood in front of her at the time. “Hey, that’s the chick that bit me!”

“Her name was Eve Snyder. She was born without any immunities. Your uncle donated a bubble--actually a rather large mobile home for her to live in. She had it bad. Permanent isolation is rare.

“These boxes are filled with progress reports, letters, and thank you cards, all addressed to the Rosie Parson’s Project,” Carla announces.

“He kept it anonymous,” Heather says with wonder.

“Bruce said he didn’t want every schmuck with a sob story knocking on his door for a handout.”

“Holy crap!” Carla leaps to her feet, holding a stack of receipts. “He started the foundation! It’s a free camp for troubled kids that I went to as a girl!”

Her mind wanders, thinking about all the lessons she learned at that camp; self-reliance, and how to avoid bad choices. She has often wondered how different her life would have been had her mother not run out on her and Sid, forcing Carla to drop out of school to go to work. She found herself straddled with a mortgage and bills at such a young age. Her only recourse was to seek employment in the only two fields a dropout could get in the region--waitressing and stripping. It covered the household expenses, put food on the table, clothes on Sid’s back, and presents under the tree. She fought like hell to give her brother a good childhood, and, as she puts it, became a mom without the stretch marks.

Once Sheriff Carla has a second to collect her thoughts, she continues to scan the papers. “He was planning to branch off to help the homeless.”

“My dad told me about that,” Dan explains. “It wasn’t going to be a shelter, but an actual place for them to live until they got back on their feet and working. The project got held up by red tape. So many of them are running from criminal charges, or AWOL from the military, he needed to get them pardoned. Bruce said he just wanted to be able to walk down the street without people asking for spare change.”

“Why did he make so little of it?” Heather asks. “He was doing so many great things.”

“Yeah,” Carla pipes in. “I feel like a saint when I give a bell ringer a buck at Christmas.”

“It was for her. For Rosie.” Dan looks down at the three boxes. “He hated that someone with such a good heart was taken from the world by heart problems.”

“I knew there was something special about him,” Carla says, wiping her eyes. She composes herself. “We all need to eat and rest up for tomorrow. The shed had a few boxes of emergency rations and astronaut food.”

With encouragement, Dan eats what he can stomach before they all turn in.

5

The survivors felt compelled to bunk together in the den in sleeping bags around the fire. Frustrated groans disturb Dan, and he sits up to see a familiar form looking through the boxes in the fire’s dying glow.

“Bruce?”

“Don’t even talk to me!” the ghost turns , holding up one of his magazines. “I let you paw through my jerkoff rags, but not my personal papers!”

“Sorry.”

“Not cool.”

“Did you just come back here to bitch?” Dan asks. “Shouldn’t you be up in heaven playing billiards with Santa and the Easter Bunny?”

“Those fucks?” his uncle scoffs. “Santa, for one, is a douchebag who just takes credit for other people’s good deeds. And you try shooting stick with that rascally rabbit. Every time you turn around he’s hiding the fucking balls… I came down here to wish you luck tomorrow. It’ll be a bear but you’ll pull through, be in the gulf before dusk. I have faith in you... and a small wager in your favor. Turns out heaven is a lot like Vegas, just without the nearby brothels and two dollar buffets.”

“I was looking at the map you drew of the river’s new path. I think we can pull off where Waterloo was, get to land quicker.”

“What’re you stupid or something?” Bruce asks. “I said take it the entire way.”

“We have people in…”

“You’re no good to them drowned. Kings don’t drown. There’s too much risk in trying to stop.”

“Ok,” he surrenders, if only to shut Bruce up.

“Honey?” Heather sits up, cradling her husband’s shoulders. “Who are you talking to?”

Bruce is gone. Dan has to wonder if he was dreaming or going insane. “No one, babe.”

##

The flat bottomed craft rest upon a series of logs, each of even diameter, with several more aligned in front at the intervals dictated by the deceased designer. This is to be the method of launching; the craft will be pushed over the rollers, along with the many pontoons beneath it. The shed the materials were stored in has become the cabin, and fifty-two steel clamps that held it to a foundation now secure it to the deck.

“He thought of everything,” Carla tells Dan, who sees the finished product for the first time. “There’s even a camping toilet.”

Items had been moved in before the sun rose--weapons and ammo, what little food they have and dry clothes--anything they feel they may need for the voyage and ultimate arrival. Heather and the boys are already on board. She has them in their stroller with the wheels locked, and she lashes the carrier with bungee cords for added security.

Oz has a truck tied to the back of the vessel, as per Bruce’s orders. He wishes he hadn’t left Mater in town, but this one will do nicely. He will begin pushing them toward the hill, and then be in charge of lowering them down it while Dan and Carla move the logs they pass over back to the bow.

“We’re almost there!” Dan calls out. He was feeling much better than yesterday after getting some rest, but now he feels as if his blood is boiling. His head swoons as he and Carla climb onboard.

Putting the truck in park and setting the emergency brake, Oz also boards their life boat. A machete in hand, he heads aft. He gives the others time to hunker down in preparation for the plunge, then a single chop severs the mooring lines. The big man must grab the rails once gravity takes them into the swift current of the river they will take south.

The jolting entrance into the Charles almost sends Oz over the side, but he has his strong arms locked around the sturdy railing that surrounds the deck. They are traveling at a quick and surprisingly smooth clip. He acquires his sea legs and calls out to the other crew members, “Everyone all right?”

“We’re good!” Carla answers after giving her shipmates a once over.

The river has filled in the trough it had cut long before the dam was erected; New Castle is almost completely under water. Before long, they are passing the spot where their wall once stood, and at the rate they are moving they should be passing Waterloo in just a few hours.

Using two of the long poles that took the raft down the hill, Carla and Oz explore the depth of the river and find they can’t even touch the bottom yet. These poles are how they will steer when they reach the stretches predicted to be shallow. All eyes look ahead for obstructions and possible dangers. Though Bruce had implemented a bumper system of old tires around the entire craft, they’d rather not test them unnecessarily.

“According to Bruce, the city will give us the most trouble,” Dan reports with slurred words. “But the Charles should widen just after Gaines. It’ll be slower, keep us to the right… I mean starboard. We’ll go aground, and…”

“I thought your uncle said to take it all the way to the Gulf?” Heather questions him.

“I need to get you and the boys to Raleigh.” He has difficulty focusing on her face, and the hardly turbulent water feels like shooting the rapids to him.

“We will,” she assures him. “We’ll paddle to shore from the Gulf and find a ride back north.”

“We have to…”

“Boss, I’m with Heather on this,” Oz says. “No one wants to get there more ’n me. My kids are there…”

“And, my brother,” Carla adds.

“Everyone we care about. But we know they’re safe. Raleigh is cleaned out, and all the dead that attacked our town have been wiped out.”

“No! We need to get there as soon as possible!” The king makes his stand on wobbly legs. His concern for those in attendance is clouding him to the possible dangers of his decision. “I am the captain and I say we land.”

Glances are exchanged at that, because Dan has never pulled rank before. He never even wanted to be the leader. Trying to stop could be catastrophic, and they know it shouldn’t be risked.

“No,” Heather belays the order. “We continue south as planned.”

The sting of the mutiny is bad enough, but for his own wife to rescind his command is comparable to a kick in the groin.

A figure leaning against the shed adds his two cents to the debate, yet only the delirious king can see or hear him. “I told you when I taught you to play chess, the queen is the most powerful and precious piece on the board.”

“Fuck you.”

“Honey?” Heather is shocked.

“Not you. I’m talking to Bruce.”

“Bruce?” Oz asks. “The dead guy I carried to New Castle?”

“He might be dead, but he’s still a pain in my ass.” Dan enters the cabin to rest his shivering body. A cramp is forming in his stomach that is making it impossible to remain standing.

##

Drifting in an out of consciousness, while the raft likewise drifts along the river, Dan is racked with severe pains in his abdomen. Between the intense, stabbing bouts, he hears voices he can’t place.

“They say human bites are the worst…”

“Perhaps he picked something up from that girl?”

“That’s what worries me.”

The pain and confusion abates, and he feels better having rested. He’s getting his second wind, or his third. The world clarifies for the exhausted Dan, who lies on the floor of the shed. Someone had removed the boys from the enclosure, and he hopes he didn’t scare them with his pain-induced wailing.

Oz’s voice emboldens him to get to his feet, “Heads up. Here comes Waterloo.”

Despite his crew’s treason against him, they will all fare better if he joins the effort. The city will be treacherous and his only aim is to keep everyone onboard alive. He’d prefer not to take his wife and kids through the dangerous world, but since that isn’t an option he only wishes to make the journey as short as possible. If the consensus is to reach the Gulf then that’s what they’ll do, together.

A guiding pole in hand, Dan takes in the sight of his old home through burning eyes. The streets are now flowing brooks and channels that babble over cars like rocks in a stream. The team passes over the old levy, then around skyscrapers and cars that hadn’t been washed out in the flood. The river’s new path is straight through the city, and its current picks up where the water must squeeze between buildings and other structures. Debris from the torrent has created rapids and eddies they must negotiate, and one stands out as ironic--the massive plaster cow that once stood outside of Lindsey’s creamery.

The raft rocks from the swells and falls of the current, while the bottom thuds against unseen dangers. Submerged rubble that remains of this lost civilization. The crew gets the hang of how to handle the fast-moving water, passing the hospital where Oz once worked, and where Vincent was born. They proceed to the recruit depot, where Dan had begun that dreadful day so long ago.

“The rest should be smooth sailing!” Carla cheers their efforts once they are out of the city.

Dan’s condition has exacerbated once again from the exertion. He leans against the rails, dizzy beyond comprehension. Hands guide him back into the cabin where Heather and Carla tend to him. As a precaution, the sheriff is armed.

His mind slips into a stream of memories and bizarre imagery, snippets of the waking world.

“He’s burning up!” he hears his wife exclaim somewhere far away. “104 degrees.”

“Put these on him.” Carla joins Heather.

Cold wet things shock him from his erratic slideshow, and in the flotsam of his thoughts they become the clammy hands of corpses trying to drag down into the mouth of Hell. Brimstone from the gaping pit burns his skin. He fights and resists the cold clutches of death to no avail. They remain as firm as steel in their resolve, taking him deep into the magma.

##

“I got him, Carla,” Oz appears in the room. He places a hand against the king’s chest, pinning him to the floor. His writhing and thrashing has them worried he may hurt himself. “Can you watch the bow for me?”

Rags moistened with the very water they float in cool Dan down. He had fought against their application, as if they were hurting him. Heather and Oz make eye contact, and he wishes he could offer her reassuring words, but he can’t. He has no idea what’s happening to her husband and doesn’t want to lie to her.

6

A beautiful golden glow enters the cabin, almost lost on Dan’s bleary eyes. Gnarled trees cast shadows, casually dappling the light. He lies still on sore muscles for a moment, to allow the world to come into focus. Although he feels a bit stronger now, and again more capable, what compels him to rise is what he doesn’t feel, motion. The lazy shadows have ceased.

A pile of wet rags, warmed by his body heat, fall as he sits up, and their absence gives him a chill. His first steps are slow, because like an animal fresh from hibernation he is groggy. Before he can reach the door he is met by his wife, and the sight of her is a relief as well as a curse. It fills him with joy, but also makes him hungry.

“How are you?” she asks, dividing the distance between them.

He shies from her, unable to look her in the eyes when he lies, “Fine.”

“We think we’re in Florida, or maybe Louisiana,” she tells him. “We didn’t quite make it to the Gulf. The trees got too thick.”

Carla joins the two, putting an end to an awkward silence that has grown between them. “Look who’s up again. Did Heather tell you we’ve stopped?”

“Yeah,” Dan replies softly. “Where are the boys?”

“With our new babysitter,” Carla says, seemingly excited by the odd statement. “We’ve taken on a passenger.”

“How is that possible? Who?”

“You’ll never guess in a million years… Kelly Peel!”

“The singer?” Dan shakes his head. “The girl that sings the song about the rooster?”

“It isn’t actually about a rooster, honey,” Heather tells her husband.

“Really?”

“It’s called ‘Cock-a-doodle do me!’” Carla exclaims. “Apparently, our VIP passenger was on some base that got overrun. She was giving a concert, and after her second encore they found the halls overrun by zombies, including her husband Randy Russell. Did you know they were getting divorced? I always thought they were a mismatched pair, but it worked for them, you know… Anyways, they had to ration what concessions they had after they cleared the place. Everyone was forced to sit tight and wait for the army to resolve the situation because there were a lot more outside, but the army never did. The group dwindled as sects branched off; hers ran but got pinned down before they could make it to the vehicles. They were almost to safety when Kelly, she told me to call her that, heard a baby crying. She had her group go on so she could find the kid. You know, I always knew she was different than the other pop stars. She made it out with a woman and her baby. They found a secure place to hold up, stayed there for months. It was like fate. The house was stocked with canned goods and baby food, surrounded by a thick stone wall and on a hill she said looked like a cake frosted with grass.”

The description is vaguely familiar Dan, who only half listens to the rapid fire explanation. His mind is elsewhere, thinking of what will happen to them next.

“The flood filled the property like a moat. Kelly saw us by chance and decided to risk her life to get them help. She followed us all the way through Waterloo on a door. Can you believe that? We only saw her because I went aft to take a pee. We slowed down and picked her up! The woman and her kid are still there…”

The sheriff is clearly star struck by the presence of the surprise passenger. But Dan just nods as she goes on about the extent of the woman’s altruism.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” Heather asks. She sees her husband’s eyes glaze over.

“I’m a little hungry,” he answers softly, as if afraid what the reaction to the news will be.

“We have some more rations.”

Admitting to her that he isn’t certain if it is food he is hungry for is difficult. He hasn’t eaten in a while, but fears his hunger may be more akin to Eve Snyder’s when she tore out Becka’s throat. He feels like a man telling an AA meeting that he is an alcoholic for the first time. Dan simply shakes his head, “I’ll be ok.”

“I took a few ginger ales from Bruce’s bar,” Carla offers. “That always helps me when I feel icky… which is weird since when I feel fine it makes me sick.”

“No thanks.” Dan tries to smile. He exits the cabin.

Out on the deck he sees they have stopped among the tangled trees of a swamp. He hears a lullaby being softly sung to his sons somewhere on the stranded craft. The melody seems unbefitting of the flooded bog that surrounds them. The setting sun shines through the twisted cypress, and the hanging canopy acts like a net that seems to be holding in the dwindling daylight, as if not ready to let it go. Shadows move between the trees, and they realize figures are wading in the deep mire.

As if on cue, the song stops and the boys start to cry. Dan thinks the sentiment Carla speaks aloud, “This isn’t good.”

“Get Heather and the boys inside,” Dan says.

Heather carries Vincent around the deck, followed by the familiar face of the pop star who holds Jack. Dan’s eyes meet Heather’s, and he fears it’s for the last time. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replies as if shocked by the timing.

The king looks back to the slow approaching figures, unable to look upon his family any longer. He listens to the women tend to the young; they feed the kids to keep them silent.

“There’s an awful lot of them,” Oz says next to Dan. Both have been trying to count the forms, and each attempt lessens their odds, for more become visible in the distance. They have guns and plenty of ammo, but will be losing the light soon, and with it the possibility of escape. There is no way to tell just how many are out there, but the fight will surely attract more, possibly beyond their means of protection.

“There’s no telling if there’s a river crossing to the east,” Dan says. “West is the only option to get to Raleigh.”

“Yeah, I thought of that,” Oz concurs sadly.

“You’ll be able to take care of my family, right?” Dan asks.

“Of course,” the large man answers before fully realizing what he is agreeing to. “Boss?”

“Tell them every day that I love them, please?”

“Wait a sec!”

Oz tries to stop what is about to happen but is too late. Dan is over the side, trudging eastward through the deep muck. The man screams out to the dead as Bill Thompson had done for him, so long ago.

“Come and get me!”

##

He struggles to move through the waist-deep water as swiftly as possible, but the muddy floor sucks against his efforts. The thick sludge that tries to pull Dan down into its depths has already robbed him of his boots, and still wants more. The earth seems to be trying to claim him, giving his uncle’s insane talk of Mother Nature’s vendetta against the Williamsons credence.

Dan has the attention of the dead that are having a far harder time with the quagmire. He exploits a gap between the waterlogged zombies, gaining a lead inch by inch, still screaming for them to follow.

His heart is racing like a caged bird trying to break free from captivity. He gasps like an asthmatic, because the thick smells of the swamp gag him. His movements stir up fresh aromas of decay. Dan loses the ability to call out. He just hasn’t the breath.

The waters shallow, and Dan is forcing his way up an incline to rest upon the roots of a tree that has toppled. The parts of the tree that should be submerged form a filthy chair, caked with dried mud, but he doesn’t care. He is wheezing and dizzy and just needs a break. He can’t scream for the dead to claim him, he doesn’t have to, they have him locked in and are still converging.

“That’s ok, soldier,” Bruce says beside him on the roots. “You’ve done enough for one day. At ease.”

Dan can feel that the end is near. His journey is almost complete. As he circles the drain, he wonders if his body will give out before the dead arrive, but he needs to know something even more paramount before the darkness takes him. “I gotta ask… If you were so paranoid, why the do-it-yourself raft? Why not a fucking boat or a jet ski?”

“That’s dumb. What do I know about sailing?”

“You were in the navy.”

“Not for very long. You’re just cranky because you’re sick. It’s the fever talking.”

“I thought you were my fever talking.” Dan furrows his brow. He has his head against a twisted stalk, and the cool grime feels soothing against his temple as he speaks to his late uncle. “A rowboat or a kayak… a didgeridoo?”

“Now, how the hell would an aboriginal wind instrument help during a flood? You mean a catamaran, and I already told you ‘anything worth doing is worth doing right.’”

“You also said that if I overthought the plumbing I’d clog the sink,” Dan paraphrases another of Bruce’s favorite words of advice.

“Yeah, that’s also true. I should probably knock off the pearls of wisdom before they go and put my mug on a coin or something.”

“I’d think you’d like that.”

“My face on a coin? Hell no!” Bruce says. “Stamps and folding money--that’s what the dead aspire for. It’s pretty much all Susan B. talks about upstairs. To this day she never shuts up about it.”

Dan and the apparition are not alone in the swamp. Besides the zombies fighting to reach where he sits on the tangled root system, another predator approaches. Dan can see the water trail objects that close in on his location. “Is that a…”

“No, it’s an alligator,” Bruce corrects him, though no species was named. “It’s a common mistake. People say there’s a difference between them and crocs. Something about the snouts. I just think they’re splitting hairs. It’s the same damn thing. Enforcers for Mother Nature. That bitch’s perfect killing machines.”

The kings can only witness the unfeeling yellow eyes drift ever so close, like logs in a slow current. They don’t need to rush, their prey isn’t going anywhere. Uncle Bruce speaks calmly, “Just lay back, kid. It’ll be over before you know it. Fighting this will just make it worse.”

The dead man gently leans the dying one against his chest and caresses his head.

Dan has a brief flash of memory. “You did this when I was little. We were camping and I got scared by the thunder… It was odd then too.”

“It isn’t odd for an uncle to care for his nephew.”

“But this time you’re dead.”

“Good point,” he concedes. “Trust me, when the time finally comes, and your number is up, your dad and I will meet you at the pearly gates. The three of us are going to kick in the doors of Valhalla and throw a party the likes of which the cosmos has never seen.

“You can relax now. Your family is fine. You no longer have to worry about the future, or your kingdom. I love you, Dan.”

“I love you too,” the suicide king says as shadows creep into his vision around the edges. The dead close in on him, and the hungry reptiles draw close.

7

The king of New Castle is dead. Daniel Williamson floats upon a cloud, bathed in soft warm light. He is tranquil for the first time in a long while. He knows neither fear nor worry, and he knows his loved ones are safe and sound in the world below him. The source of his enlightenment is beyond him, but he just knows.

“His eyes are open!” a voice rends Dan from his higher plain and back into the cold world. The gentle sun that had shone down upon him has become a bright supernova in his eyes that splits his head with pain. “Get his family!”

Faces and voices bombard him as he slowly realizes he is on a bed, covered by a thin and inadequate blanket. The words he is being inundated with crowd one another, making it impossible to track, let alone nail down, the one voice he needs to hear at the moment.

“Heather?”

“Yes,” she says next to his ear. Her hand covers the one he uses to shield his tightly sealed eyes from the lights above him. Dan forces them open to look into her brilliant green ones. “I’m here.”

“What happened?”

“The dead weren’t alone in the swamp. There were soldiers. They saw our raft and came to investigate.”

“Everyone ok?” he asks.

“The boys, Carla, and Oz are fine.”

“Raleigh?”

“They’re sending troops to pick them up,” Oz answers from the corner of the room. “How’re you feeling, boss?”

“I feel good,” Dan says with surprise. “Why do I feel good?”

“I can answer that, Mr. Williamson.” A stranger approaches from where he had retreated so that those dearest to Dan could surround the patient. “From what I’ve been told, the individual that bit you was quite unique--a girl born without any immunities. Her condition required her to live in complete isolation. She had no exposure to the reanimation virus that seems to have only surfaced six years ago, pupating in us all until that fateful day.”

“Didn’t we already know that?” Carla asks her peers.

Dan concurs with a nod, but he feels this man has more to tell. “Who are you?”

“I’m from your neck of the woods, actually.” The young guy in the white lab coat smiles. “My name is Robert Smalls, or as the yokels of Poland Creek once knew me, Bob-o.”

“And you’re an expert of some sort?”

“No… I’m just a student of biochemistry. I’ve been researching this thing under a microscope since the onset. You probably noticed your attacker was different from the dead. That’s because she wasn’t dead. It isn’t the virus that kills us, it’s our own immune systems. Our bodies fight so hard they ultimately give out, and the organs shut down one by one. The disease is adaptive, so the harder we fight the stronger it becomes. In this girl it met no resistance, and could fulfill its goal with ease. It then reproduced in her as a weaker strain.”

“That’s how I beat it?” Dan comprehends.

“Not only beat, but created antibodies against it!” the scientist adds with excitement.

Oz crosses his arms and cocks his head. “Are you saying Dan is the cure?”

“Not exactly. But with his blood we can create a vaccine from the deactivated virus. The bite won’t cause the transformation. Most importantly our dead will stay… well… dead.”

“Holy crap!” Carla says with amazement. “Now all we need is a vaccine against being eaten and life can go back to normal.”

“It certainly can,” Robert says. “Our own dead are all we have to worry about here. Nothing can get through our walls.”

Dan has heard that before, and he had even thought it once about his own safe haven. He looks around the room he had first believed to be a hospital suite, finding it looks more like a hotel room. The decor is cheap but nice, massively produced fare. Everything from the wallpaper to the lamp shades depict cartoon figures he recalls--happy cats and dogs frolicking together. “Where are we?”

“You’ll never guess!” Carla happily bounds to the nearest window. She pulls the shade back to reveal a surreal world of bright colors and balloons; a rollercoaster whizzes past their view.

“Storybook Land?”

“The big one, in Florida!” her glee in announcing their new home causes her to embarrassingly forget that he already knows what state they are in. “Obviously.”

“It makes sense.” Oz shrugs. “The walls are high and made of thick stone. The place is divided into sections that can be sealed off if need be. Plus, we have some help out in the parking lot.”

“Who?”

“Alligators,” Heather explains. “They have overrun the area. With the increase in food and lack of those that would drive them off, they’ve taken over. The military tell us that they’re breeding at an alarming rate too.”

“Food supply? They’re eating the zombies! That’s great!” The idea brings joy to Dan’s heart, but despite his warranted happiness regarding the misfortune of his enemy he notices no one else is smiling with him. All the faces around his bed not only take on grim expressions, they break eye contact. “Ugh! Crap! What is it?”

“We wanted to wait until you were back on your…” Heather begins.

His wife looks to the others for help, so Carla picks up the thread. “You know, when you’re up and walking… Shit!”

“A gator ate your foot, boss,” Oz breaks the news, forgoing the tact being attempted. “Well… not all of it.”

Dan looks along the topography of the blanket that covers him, and where he should see two equal peaks he sees an uneven pair of mountains.

Heather points out that the glass is in fact half-full. “The soldiers got to you just in time.”

“I could argue they actually got there a few minutes late.” Dan stares at his partially devoured left foot, unable to remove the sheet that covers it. “But I’m alive. We all are! And, from the sounds of things, I won’t need to run anytime soon anyway.”

8

“I love this sand,” Dan Williamson says as he digs a small plastic shovel into the sugar white granules of the theme park’s private beach. It’s a perfect day, not too hot but still sunny. He looks around at the other survivors enjoying the setting.

Oz and Carla chase each other along the water’s edge. Apart from a large age gap, the pair seem made for one another. They’re happy. Dan smiles at the frolicking couple. They deserve it. The one time sheriff of New Castle adjusts the string straps of her thin white bikini top, drawing the attention of male onlookers immediately. The sheer magnitude of the man with her snaps their eyes away just as fast.

A man Dan had met only briefly, and like many survivors exchanged war stories with, is being buried by his blonde-haired little girl. He is begging to be let out, but she just giggles and shakes her head, allowing her single pigtail to whip back and forth. Dan had noted many similarities between his own tale and the man who is reluctantly being committed to the earth. Both started in Waterloo and in some way involved a purple Camaro. The man laughed as he recounted seeing his car being stolen by the same guy three times during the entire ordeal. The last case of grand theft occurred on an army base that had fallen to the dead. He had led his daughter and a few others out of the civilian sector when they got pinned down, only to be rescued by the most unlikely hero.

“Usually clowns give me the creeps,” Eli had said. “That day, I was never happier to see one.”

The jester got them out of danger and somehow squeezed them all into his ice cream truck. From there they decided to head to Florida, since Eli’s folks have a house boat in the Gulf near Cape Coral that they had been living on since retirement. The refugees were lucky that the stubborn couple refused to go with the Coast Guard when asked to leave their floating abode. The sailors checked on them a few times a week and got to know them on a first name basis. It wasn’t until they became overwhelmed themselves by those seeking sanctuary from the Midwest that they decided to take the Coasties up on their offer, for the good of their granddaughter.

Life feels like a vacation now to Dan and his family. He never wanted to be a leader, never chose to be the king. He doesn’t miss it in the least; his only duties now are being the very best father and husband he can be, and making bi-weekly blood donations. Between these responsibilities he has a lot of time to think, and he wonders if Bruce was simply a fever induced apparition, or was he really stopping by in the form of an angel--a cranky guardian angel.

He also thinks a lot about fate. The indefinite bastion that New Castle was supposed to be turned out to merely be a stop along the way, a roadside attraction before coming here. All the survivors, strangers in the world before, find they are connected. Dan calls it the ‘zombie effect.’ Any actions taken by one offsets the longevity of someone else; food one scavenges robs another of the possibility, putting a zombie down saves the life of someone else it may have bitten, and any zombie permitted to walk away could kill its next target.

Though a vaccine has been implemented, no one knows the true cause of the plague, with one exception. A very unlikely survivor was picked up by a patrol. The man was travelling on foot, and his unbelievable tale sparked many rumors throughout the walled society. They found him sowing seeds along to road, and when asked what he was doing he proudly proclaimed that he was ‘Spreading the love.’ He’d later elaborate that it was the least he could do for Mary Jane since she saved his life.

Garfield Colt had an epiphany in that underground lab. Freeman Wilkes had given him the idea when he told him that he smelled like a rotting corpse. Gar realized it wasn’t his acting like a zombie that saved him from them but his odor. Living in his own subterranean lair, with so long between showers and clean laundry, had masked his human scent with that of the herb. He has been wandering the country side, planting the seeds for a greener tomorrow, doing good deeds, and all with the ultimate goal of bringing a test tube filled with a green substance to anyone who may be able to use it righteously. ‘God’s bugger’ as he calls it. Needless to say, nobody takes Gar very seriously.

Today Dan tries to think of nothing. Not the virus or the cure, not the dead walking or otherwise, but of the sand and the people he loves the most; Heather, Vincent, Jack, and the newest on the list, Johnny, due in May. He sits with his family under the sun, building a castle made of sand.

To the Reader

Thank you for coming back! I hope you enjoyed this installment of the New Castle saga. Please feel free to let me know what you think. Reviews are always great, or contact me through my website: http://danielcotton.weebly.com/

If you like my writing, check out my other books: Cloudy With a Chance of Zombies, Anthills, the Gifted, and She Hates Me: Now and then.

Thanks again!

Daniel Cotton

About the Author

Daniel Cotton is a New Hampshire native currently residing in Iowa with his lovely wife and two sons. He derives inspiration from his own life and over-active imagination, tapping into pains from his past as well as the current joys in his life, blending them into tales that are both dark and touching. Daniel delves into his own life experiences; his factory jobs, his time working on a psychiatric ward, his time as a Naval Hospital Corpsman, all of the places he has lived and people he’s known to make the worlds he creates seem more real. When you read one of his works, you are actually reading a piece of him.

Table of Contents

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- To the Reader
- About the Author